Before the Dawn
by Flaignhan
Summary: Tonight has been a long time coming.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm not entirely sure a long A/N explaining the situation is necessarily a healthy start to a story. But I know some of you will be confused, so this is everything you need to know - Hermione ended up in the past (as she does so often, poor dear) and ended up having a sort of thing with Sirius. I'm inclined to say it's like an AU sequel to Paradox, but I kind of want to leave Paradox as a singular thing, on its own. Still. The idea came about as a one-shot but there was far too much exploration potential for that. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into I'm afraid, but I hope you all enjoy it.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>Tonight has been a long time coming.<p>

The _Daily Prophet_ was filled, cover to cover, with photos of him, descriptions of him, opinions of him. She was in one of the photos. So were Lily and James.

Hermione had to look away.

She has not gone to bed yet. She is sure he will come. It's three o'clock in the morning and he has been an escaped convict for around thirty hours.

_Not _that she's been counting.

She awakes some time later, having fallen asleep with her book on her chest (as is so often the way with her). She can hear a soft scratching, as though something, or some_one_ is pawing at the door. She jumps to her feet, grabbing her wand, and approaches the door carefully. Is he mad at her? For not telling the world the truth? For not fighting hard enough for a fair trial? She fought, dammit. She even went to Dumbledore and told him _everything_, but the old bastard had already given evidence _against_ Sirius.

She opens the door and stands back. He takes one step inside, transforms back into his human self, and collapses.

A flick of her wand closes the door, and another flick levitates him, up the stairs, into her bedroom and onto the bed. She casts a cleaning charm, though no amount of cleaning charms will be able to rid him of the wasted look he has acquired over the last twelve years. She transfigures his ratty prison uniform into a pair of pyjamas, her wand shaking in her hand as she tries to not think about the complete alteration Azkaban has brought about. She tries not to remember how handsome and happy he had once been, because that would make this moment so much worse.

She climbs into bed next to him, covers them both with the thick duvet, and closes her eyes, her hand linked with his.

* * *

><p>She owls in sick the next day. She tells them she's come down with a nasty case of the flu, and no amount of Pepper Up potion is going to make her feel any better.<p>

He wakes around midday, and she has a glass of water waiting for him, as well as some energy replenishing potions (which she's spent the morning brewing) and a bowl of hot chicken soup. He says nothing as he eats, his eyes focused on the tray on his lap. When he's finished he sets the spoon down with a quiet _clink_.

"He's going to be fine, you know."

"Peter -"

"I _know_."

"I need to -"

"You don't need to do anything. Nothing even _happens_ until Halloween."

"You're sure?"

"I was one of Harry's best friends. Of _course_ I'm sure."

Sirius blinks.

"You never told me that."

"There are lots of things I didn't tell you."

"I noticed," there is a hint of bitterness to his tone that he would have been unable to hide from her, no matter how much he tried to disguise it.

"I tried," she says, leaning forward, wrapping her fingers around the back of his hand. "I swear I tried. I even told Dumbledore _everything_. What keeping you in there meant, what would happen because of it all...but he wouldn't budge on it. He just gave me the changing time lecture _again._ Didn't care about what was at stake."

"Yeah well Dumbledore was always about the _greater good_. He doesn't care if some arrogant little shit he used to teach ends up in Azkaban."

"It's about more than that," Hermione whispers. "And it's not that he doesn't _care_. It's just that...well. This is the way it always was. And I'm not allowed to change it."

"Were you scared?" he asks. "Of what would happen?"

Hermione nods. "You have no idea what's coming...and the thought that things could have been worse..."

"What's coming?" Sirius' voice has turned dark. He's not letting her wriggle her way out of telling him this time. He's spent twelve years in Azkaban because she didn't warn him, his best friend and his wife are _dead_ because she didn't warn him.

"_He_ is."

"He's dead."

Hermione shakes her head.

"How long do we have?"

"Just under two years."

"And he, what, comes back?"

"Worse than before."

Sirius clenches his fists, his knuckles popping white under his skin. "So Lily and James died for nothing."

"Harry's protected. Until he's seventeen. Because of Lily."

"Well that's something, I suppose," he sighs.

Hermione doesn't know what to say. There is a distance between them now much greater than when he was in Azkaban. They are inches apart and yet it feels as though they're on different continents, in different time zones.

"D'you want some more?"

Sirius looks down at his bowl, and nods. Hermione takes it downstairs to refill it, glad to have the chance to shed a guilty tear in private.

He seems to realise what she's been up to when she returns. He takes the bowl from her, and watches as she crosses round to the other side of the bed and sits down, legs crossed.

"I don't blame you," he says, stirring his soup gently. "I guess I just...I just blame everyone."

Hermione nods, and the guilty tears make an unwelcome return. He sets the tray down on the bedside table and pulls her close, though his arms feel foreign and bony.

"Come on, don't do that," he says. "Please don't do that."

She pulls away from him so she can look him in the eye. "Everything that's going to happen is my fault - the worst bit is, I know how terrible it all is, and I'm just going to let it happen."

"Will he be gone for good this time?"

Hermione shrugs. "I disappeared before the end. Merlin only knows what they think happened to me."

He pulls her in again, and it feels as though he's not quite sure what to do with all this human contact that he has craved for so long. His hands are uncertain as to where exactly they should rest on her body, when they were always so sure before. She's not entirely sure she likes the situation. It is a painful reminder of how everything has changed, and how it's only going to get worse for all of them.

"Are you scared?"

Hermione shakes her head. "There's not much left they can take from me."

Sirius murmurs in agreement. She thinks, rather optimistically for her, that perhaps it's like the flu, in that it must all get worse before it gets better.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Okay, these chapters are only going to be 1000-1500 words long but they're going to be updated really quite fast. Similar to _Years that Followed_... in that aspect. So glad you guys liked the beginning, and hope you enjoy this bit (I hesitate to say 'chapter') just as much.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She has been given a list.<p>

She leaves while he's in the bath, and heads to the village shop to pick up ingredients for the extravagant roast he has requested for that evening. Then she heads to Honeydukes, to pick up a hefty bar of their finest milk chocolate, then to Gladrags for some clean robes for him. She spends a small fortune, and he offers to reimburse her, but she refuses to take money from him. She feels it would raise eyebrows if his Gringott's account, untouched in twelve years, suddenly transfers money into her own account.

Besides, he's spent twelve years in Azkaban. A small fortune is nothing in comparison to that.

He looks better once he's bathed and brushed his hair. The robes are baggy on him, but a few weeks of good food and comfortable living arrangements will see that he fills them out properly. She is peeling potatoes when he comes into the kitchen. He watches her, she's not sure for how long, but there comes a time when the hairs on the back of her neck start to react and it's still a few more minutes after that before either of them acknowledge the other.

"How long have you lived here?"

Hermione drops the final quartered potato into the saucepan and turns around to face him, the small of her back resting against the kitchen counter.

"Since the lease ran out on the flat."

"And you just lived here on your own since?"

She knows what he's getting at. She nods and turns back to her chopping board. She could chop the carrots with a wave of her wand, she could have peeled the potatoes by magic too. Doing it by hand offers some sort of comfort. She's keeping busy. Doing it by hand reminds her of a simpler time when her biggest worry in the world was the fact that Jennifer Merton hadn't invited her to her birthday party.

"Haven't you been lonely?"

"Not half as lonely as you."

"You didn't think to find someone?"

"You were in Azkaban, you weren't _dead_." She says this harshly, much more so than she ever expected. She has grown tired of justifying her years of singledom to every nosy parker, every gossiper and every _concerned friend._

Remus doesn't even know that Sirius is innocent, but he still understands, in that almost sickeningly accepting way that he always does.

Her harsh tone is, apparently, the invitation he was waiting for, and she hears him step towards her, his bare feet slapping softly on the tiled floor. He places his hands on her waist and presses his body against hers. She can feel each one of his ribs against her back, even through the thick material of his robes. She puts down her knife and places her hands on top of his. They're old hands now. Hers are old too, but his especially so. She can feel every tendon, flexing under his skin, and nothing about the situation feels as it should. She can't even remember how he used to feel, but she knows it was nothing like this.

The egg timer buzzes loudly, and it is time to check the beef. He steps away from her so she can get to the oven and she is so very grateful for the distraction.

He is still able to read her like a book.

"D'you want me to leave?"

"No."

The answer is firm enough and sure enough that he doesn't press the matter any further. There is a scrape of chair legs and he sits down at the kitchen table. Hermione glances up to the steamy kitchen window to catch sight of his reflection. He has his head in his hands and she feels the familiar knot of guilt begin to tangle her intestines.

She transfers the beef joint onto a plate, then begins to wash up the roasting dish. She needs to keep busy, and she _needs_ to stop looking at him via the window. Once the pan is cleaner than it ever has been, even before she bought it, she deals with the potatoes. The usual faff that comes with roast potatoes inconveniently disappears, as she transfers them to the oven with minimum hassle. The vegetables need none of her attention. She considers making gravy, but she doesn't even _like_ gravy, and neither does he.

"D'you want to carve the beef?" she asks at last. He needs something to do as much as she does, and she's always been rubbish at carving.

He nods, and takes the knife from her. Something about seeing it in his hand leads her think of Ron, and she makes mental note to keep a spare - he's bound to run off with it sometime this year.

* * *

><p>"Gravy?" she asks, pushing the small jug towards his side of the table.<p>

He shakes his head, concentrating on wolfing down his meal. He is finished before Hermione is even halfway through her own, and his eyes meet hers, seeking permission to help himself to seconds.

By the time she is finished, Sirius has had two and a half roast dinners, and is now sitting back in his seat, hands resting on his very full stomach. He looks much better, a result of the relaxation only a good dinner after a long day can bring. She can only imagine how much relaxation is brought about by a good dinner after a long twelve years of solitary confinement, but something of the sparkle she had once known in his eyes has returned.

"How's Remus?" he asks a short while later, passing a dripping wet dish to Hermione so she can dry it. Their hands are kept busy by doing things _the muggle way_ and as such, their minds don't have to focus on the other ways they _used to_ keep their hands busy when they were together before.

"Good. He's teaching at Hogwarts."

Sirius drops a handful of cutlery back into the washing up bowl, and the resultant splash covers the pair of them in soaps suds and water.

"Teaching?"

"Well not yet, but he starts at the beginning of term," she looks up at him, and adds, "Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Dumbledore's doing I suppose?"

"Yeah."

"Well, at least he's got one thing right."

"You won't hold it against him forever," Hermione tells him softly. "He only did what he thought was right at the time. No one could ever have known that it wasn't - "

"You knew. And you told him."

"I was too late."

"You weren't _twelve years_ too late."

"I might as well have been." She looks down at the floor, but a soapy finger tilts her chin up.

He's already forgiven her, she can tell. And she hates him for it.

* * *

><p>He sleeps with his body tucked in a ball, like a baby. She tries not to picture him curled up on the harsh stone floor of an Azkaban cell, but the image is stuck there, like a film paused at the nastiest part. She pushes her face into her pillow and squeezes her eyes shut.<p>

She awakes some time later, and through the crack in the curtains can see the first hints of orange from the rising sun. During the night she has wrapped herself around him, their limbs tangled together like badly stored jewellery. He has straightened a little, looks a little more relaxed, and she rests her head on his chest, just so she can remind herself every second that he is here, in one piece.

It's more than she could ever have hoped for, and she must make the most of it.

It won't last long.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thrilled with the response so far guys, hope you like this bit - going to _try_ and post daily, but can't make any promises.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>There is a knock at the door. They both look up sharply, their eyes meeting across the kitchen table.<p>

She glances over at the calendar, checking the lunar cycle. Hermione never receives visitors at this time of the month.

Never.

She picks up her Sneakoscope and gives it a shake. It doesn't appear to be broken. She is about to give instructions to Sirius, but he has already transformed into the large black dog she is so familiar with, and he trots into the lounge, curling up on the rug in front of the fire. A wave of her wand vanishes Sirius' mug of tea. She glances around to ensure there are no other traces of him.

Wand in hand, Hermione approaches the front door. When she opens it, she finds herself looking at a tall, muscular black wizard, a serious expression painted across his features.

"Kingsley," she says, almost in relief.

He frowns, undoubtedly because this is his first time meeting her.

"Miss Granger?"

"Yes, come in." She steps aside, and Kingsley enters the house, bowing his head to avoid the low set door frame.

"You know why I'm here, of course?"

"Naturally," her spine stiffens. Kingsley is not on side yet, she has to be careful. "Would you like some tea? Pumpkin juice?"

Kingsley holds up a polite, but firm hand, declining the offer and follows Hermione into the lounge. He takes a seat on the sofa, while she sits herself in the armchair by the fire. Sirius stretches, his front claws grazing gently against her feet. Her toes curl. It tickles.

"I'm going to be blunt."

"What a coincidence," Hermione says, "So am I."

Kingsley looks interested, and leans back in his seat. He waves a hand, inviting her to speak first.

"I assume the reason the Head of the Auror office has been sent to question me on his own is because you and you alone are aware of my... _situation_."

Kingsley inclines his head.

"And I assume that you are also aware that when I was thirteen, which is, well, around about now, I was one of Harry Potter's best friends."

He nods again.

"So why on earth, do you think I would choose to enter a relationship with a man who I already knew would sell his parents out to Voldemort? What in the name of Merlin could I possibly want to do with somebody like that?"

"The nature of your relationship with Black is not why I'm here."

"I _know_, but I'm not stupid, and you _know_ that."

"You're not helping yourself," his voice is as calm as ever, but his slow, easy tone is doing nothing to dampen her desire for the truth to be known.

"Would you like me to be even more blunt, Kingsley?"

He sighs. Evidently he was hoping things would have been more straightforward.

"In a couple of years time, you're going to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix. The headquarters will be provided by Sirius. It will be part of your job to keep the hunt for him _away_ from him. Dumbledore will explain everything when the time comes, but you have to trust me now."

"Have you seen him?"

"Do you_ trust _me?" she's not budging until he's on side. She's not going to answer a single question until she is _sure_ that he's with her.

"How can you expect me to trust you?"

"Because I lost everything fighting Voldemort. No one associated with him is welcome in my house. Sirius Black is welcome in my house. You work it out."

She can almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. He can't argue with anything she says, but she also knows that he can't argue. It could be a double bluff, of course it could be, but he only has to take one look at her thirteen year old self to realise just how disgracefully pure and good she is. Was. Still is. Just a little bit.

He looks at her for a long while.

"I trust you."

It's not an act to get her to talk, Kingsley is far more loyal to Dumbledore than to the Ministry, and if he's loyal to Dumbledore then he's loyal to _her_.

Hermione smiles. "Good. You won't regret it, I promise."

"He's unhinged, Granger, you have to be careful. Azkaban can do terrible things to a man, even if he is as innocent as you say."

Hermione shakes her head. "I _have_ seen him. He's not unhinged at all. He's just..."

"Just?"

"Well, how would you be after twelve years in there? He's not insane. Not by a long shot. Not any more than he was before he went in, anyway," she can't help but smile fondly.

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. He's not convinced, clearly, but he says nothing else on the matter. "The Order of the Phoenix..."

"What about it?"

"If the Order comes back, then that must mean..."

"It does. There's nothing to be done, for now."

"How many people know?" he's uneasy, holding this information, she can tell. But he's Kingsley, and he'll deal with it one way or another. He always does.

"You. Dumbledore. Me."

"Black?"

She nods. "He's not going to act like an innocent man, this year," she ignores the nudge of a cold wet nose on her ankle. "He's only going to make himself look guilty, but he's not after Harry."

"Who's he after?"

"I can't say."

"Another student?"

"No."

"A teacher?"

"No."

"You have to give me something."

She taps her fingers on the side of her face as she considers her clue. "He's after the rat."

"The rat?"

"The one who ratted out Lily and James."

Kingsley has nothing to say in response to this. His eyebrows are riding high on his forehead as the information digests. He looks at Hermione with a sense of incredulity. This odd little creature, who keeps herself hidden away from the wizarding world because she's existing in two places at once, she's the one that's in control. The Head of the Auror Office has no hold over her whatsoever, and is completely at her beck and call.

"Are you going to track me?"

"No."

"What are you going to tell the others?"

"That you finally came to terms with what he did, that if you see him you're going to be only too happy to hand him back to the dementors."

She nods. It's a good plan. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose partner betrayed her friends and was responsible for their deaths, etcetera. He seems very easily won over though. She voices her concerns to him.

"I've had a couple of meetings with Dumbledore about security at the school. He asked me if I'd be talking to you."

"He told you everything?"

"No," Kingsley says, "just to take your word as gospel."

"Wow," she replies. "You know, he's almost making amends."

Kingsley smirks, in that half grimace way that he so often does, and eventually takes her up on the offer of tea. He has questions, naturally, just as anybody would. And she tries to answer them in the least annoying way possible. He's risking a lot by sabotaging the search for Sirius, and she doesn't want to send him away hating her for not giving any proper answers.

When he walks out the door however, he's still not much wiser about the future than when he first stepped in. Those with half a brain cell can tell trouble has been bubbling for the last few years, since the 'Stone Incident' (as it is referred to by the Aurors) and the mess with the chamber last year that only confirmed that Voldemort's not even _half_ dead.

Only a seventh dead, but she's kept that little titbit to herself.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** So typical that I type the phrase 'daily updates' and the following day I become cross with my fic for making me late for swimming and thus ignore it. Still, here it is, hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>He's gone. She's not worried. She didn't expect him to stay as long as he did, if she was perfectly honest.<p>

Today she decides to return to work. She leaves a note for him in the kitchen, should he choose to reappear (plenty of food in the fridge, his robes have been washed and are on the line, etcetera etcetera). Really she just wants to be able to communicate with him, even if it's about the most mundane of subjects. She's not even sure he'll be back tonight to read it, but feels she should say _something_.

She apparates to the office and is greeted with several 'how are you feeling?'s. She satisfies curiosity with short, positive answers, and gets to work on her overflowing in-tray.

Most of her morning is spent answering letters from various departments, and in the afternoon she is sent off to a nursery, where a young muggleborn witch has managed to stick a boy to the ceiling. The girl can't be older than three, an has an air of mischievous awareness about her abilities. In fact, when Hermione tries to talk to her about it, she attempts to change Hermione's hair colour.

Hermione is having none of that, and so she imposes restrictions on her powers until she is older, much like a restrictor on the bike of a newly licensed motorcyclist. She can't afford to be called out three times a week for the next eight years. She has a meeting with the parents, explains that if any more mishaps do occur that they're not to worry, that someone will be along to deal with it, and, most importantly of all, they are to keep their daughter's newfound talents a complete secret.

This conversation takes understandably, but rather inconveniently, a very long time, and once Hermione is finished, she pops back to the office to file a report, before heading home.

He's not there, and by the time she goes to bed, he's still not back.

She's not worried in the slightest. He can look after himself. He might not have a wand, but he's got a better disguise than anyone _with _a wand could ever conjure. _And_ he's the only person to have ever escaped Azkaban. (So far, at least.)

When she lays her head down on her pillow, she gives in.

She's really quite worried.

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><p>She is shaken roughly awake, and has to blink a few times before her eyes can focus in the dark.<p>

"I've seen him!"

"What?" she's sleepy, and Sirius' frantic whispers are making no sense.

"I've seen him!"

"Who?" she sits up, and lights the candle on her bedside table with a flick of her wand. His eyes are wide with excitement, his face smudged with dirt, his hair damp and a little matted.

"Harry!"

"Where?"

"Getting on the Knight Bus. I think I scared him a bit, but he'll be fine."

She tries to be happy for him, but the clock tells her it's far too late, or early - she's never quite sure when the crossover point is - for such things.

"Get some sleep," she tells him, and he obeys, not bothering to change out of his clothes. His breathing is heavy for several minutes, though he doesn't say a word. Apparently he's realised what time it is, but his fingers still fiddle with the edge of the covers, and Hermione can almost feel his smile on her own face.

She _is_ happy for him, though she needn't be. His happiness is enough to make up for the last twelve years of misery several times over. He's got enough happiness for himself and everybody in the entire country, no doubt. She finds his hand under the duvet and gives it a squeeze.

"He looks _so much_ like James," he whispers.

"I know," she replies softly.

"Except for the eyes."

"Lily's eyes."

He turns his head to look at her and reaches out to touch her face. His fingers are dirty, but she doesn't care. She closes her eyes and tries to pretend that the last twelve years haven't happened. He pulls her against him, his beard scratching at her neck. Once his breathing has settled into a slow and easy rhythm, and she is sure he won't be running off again, she allows herself to fall asleep once more.

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><p>He tells her every detail he can remember at least five times during breakfast the next morning. She smiles as he chatters excitedly, and answers his questions as best she can. She can barely remember a thirteen year old Harry; she's just been clinging on to the memories from their last few months together. Those were the freshest, the easiest to retain. Once she's broken down the barrier, however, the memories come flooding through.<p>

"He's got a bit of a hero complex," she says, smirking slightly. "He has to save everyone, all the time."

"Really?"

"He saved Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets last year."

"Who's Ginny?"

"Ron's little sister."

"Ron?"

She used to that face knowing who she's talking about. When he was young, when he was _different_, it was a constant visual reminder that he didn't have the slightest clue about anything in her life before _the incident_. Now though, he's the same Sirius she helped to break out of Flitwick's office, he's the same Sirius she sneaked up to the caves to see on Hogsmeade trips, he's the same Sirius who stomped about Grimmauld Place at Christmas in her fifth year singing 'God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs'.

This is a crossover point, and she doesn't have nearly enough time to explain things to him. She's already late for work, and can't allow herself to keep holding off on her real life because he's broken out of prison, as much as she wish she could.

"I'll see you later," she says. "_Don't_ run off again. There's food in the fridge. And have a bath, you're still all _doggy_," she wrinkles her nose and Sirius lets out a bark of laughter. He leans back in his chair, watching as she pulls on her coat and slings her handbag over her shoulder. She takes one last look at him and disapparates, her shoulders slumping when she opens her eyes to find herself in the bustling atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

She went twelve years without so much as a glimpse of him.

Now she's got him back, she's finding it hard to go twelve seconds.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Here we are again! Hope you enjoy - let me know what you think. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She hasn't had Butterbeer for years. It doesn't warm her through as much as she remembers, but there is still a faint hint of something comforting.<p>

Remus is still caught half way between young and old, as he always has been, and as he always will be. She knows why he wanted to meet her tonight, and she wishes he'd just get to the point.

"Has he been to see you?" he asks, after much preamble of questions about work, her health, her plans. They are the same questions he asks every time he sees her, and she gives him the same answers as before.

"Yes," she says, bluntly, her eyes a little wide with truth, her shoulders shrugging in a 'so what?' fashion.

"_And_?"

"It's complicated."

"Hermione, he sold Lily and James to -" his voice is rising, and Hermione shoots a dark look at him. He falls silent immediately.

"It's far more complex than that. You know he would never have done that, you know deep down. You just...you don't have all the facts."

"So what are they?"

"Just _trust me_. You know I can't give you the facts, and you know who my best friend is."

Remus drops his eyes to his glass of Firewhiskey, and swirls the liquid around in the tumbler, conceding his loss in this particular argument.

"Do you honestly think I'd jeopardise his safety? D'you honestly think I'd associate with a man who I already _knew_ would be responsible for Lily and James' deaths?"

Remus frowns, and Hermione thinks that perhaps he's got it.

"I'm getting confused, when are we talking about?"

Hermione sighs. "All the time. Just...keep an eye on Harry. He's as reckless as Sirius and James put together."

"I know," he says, with a hint of a wry smile. "He has Lily's heart though."

She nods in agreement, and suddenly Butterbeer doesn't seem quite strong enough for the conversation. She orders a Firewhiskey and Madame Rosmerta provides it almost instantaneously. The glass feels better in her hand, and she takes a sip, the heat searing through her in a way the Butterbeer would never have been able to manage.

"They say he's after him."

Hermione sighs. They're back on Sirius again.

"_They_ don't know their wands from their cauldrons. This is Fudge we're talking about. Fudge who owls Dumbledore twice a week asking how to run the country. You can't trust a word he says."

"They say he's unhinged."

"Fudge? Yes, I suppose he is a bit."

Remus scowls, and Hermione sighs with resignation.

"He's damaged. But not broken."

"Damaged?"

"Wouldn't you be damaged after twelve years in that place?" She's feeling like a stuck record, first Kingsley, now Remus. Always the same questions. Always the same barely disguised disbelief when she assures them he's not dangerous.

He nods, and takes another sip of his whiskey. "You know sometimes -" he stops, mid sentence, and shows no sign of continuing.

"Sometimes?" Hermione prompts.

He pauses, before continuing. "Sometimes I think it would have all been easier, if he'd been out. Dealing with Lily and James...I needed him."

"He didn't kill them," she says slowly, hoping that her lack of speed allows the information to sink in deeper. "He blames himself, but he never went _near_ Voldemort."

"I realised something about you today," he says, changing the topic. He's not willing to take her word, and she's not willing to hear a word against Sirius. He knows better than to continue going round in circles with her.

"Yeah?"

"You knew all along."

"Knew?"

"About...me."

"Yeah."

"But, in our time, well, my time, the Wolfsbane potion hadn't even been thought of - I was dangerous. And you still...you still didn't care."

"Just because you're not a man once a month, it doesn't mean you're not a good man." She's stolen the line from Lily, and she can tell he's noticed. His eyes cloud over with grief, his grip on his glass tightens, and he meets her gaze with a shared sense of longing.

"I can't believe it still hurts, after all this time," he whispers.

Hermione says nothing. With people like Lily and James, it hurts forever.

They sit in quiet contemplation for a few minutes, their thoughts lingering on the past, and the things they cannot change. It is Remus who breaks the silence in the end.

"I want to see him," he says resolutely.

"No."

"_Yes_."

"Absolutely not. We have to follow the timeline."

"To hell with the timeline! Following the timeline killed Lily and James!"

He has a point.

"It'll be soon. Before the summer."

"Hermione -"

"No! If it's obvious you've seen him before then, you'll be in trouble too. You'll understand, I promise. By the end of June, you'll understand."

"It's all right for you," he says, uncharacteristically bitter, but unsurprisingly so, given her flat out refusal to grant him what he wants. "You know everything already, you can just play the timeline card whenever you're not quite ready to let go of a secret."

"It's all right for me?" Hermione can't help the rise in volume and pitch. "You think it's all right for me?"

"You know what I mean," he hisses, looking around anxiously, eager not to draw attention to their conversation.

"I've been walking around friends who are going to _die_ for the last fifteen years, always being told by _him_ that I can't save them, I can't intervene," she pauses for breath, and to build up the courage to really hit him hard with her next statement. "You know Sirius is going to _die_ saving Harry's life in a couple of years, don't you? You know that all he can look forward to until then is being on the run and eating rats, or else being locked up in his parents' old house, don't you?" hot tears are spilling down her cheeks but she doesn't care. She's beyond caring, because ever since he turned up at her door, ever since she got him back, all she's been thinking about is the day that she has to lose Sirius Black all over again.

"Of course I didn't know..." his forehead is resting on his palm. He's regretting saying anything at all, and so he should, but she's not ready to let it lie just yet.

"Well now you do. And you can deal with that. You can deal with looking at him and not being able to tell him. He's the only thing I've got left, and he's going to be taken away from me. And I'm not allowed to do _anything_."

"I'm _sorry_."

"You're only sorry I told you."

She stands abruptly, her chair tipping back and clattering to the floor. She disapparates with an overly dramatic _crack_, leaving Remus to finish his Firewhiskey as best he can amongst the curious stares.

* * *

><p>"How is he?" Sirius asks, switching off the radio and getting to his feet.<p>

Hermione launches herself at him, kissing every inch of him she can find, her hands gripping his body so tight there are bound to be bruises in the morning. He tries to speak, but she silences him, pushing her lips against his. There would be a time for talking later. She doesn't have nearly enough time left with the man she loves, and she does not intend to spend any of the time she does have discussing the pigheadedness of someone she thought was a friend.

It's like the first time all over again. He's different, and she's different, but eventually their bodies remember what it was like before and they may as well be seventeen again. All that has happened in the last fifteen years has been forgotten, and they are able to withdraw into the world they used to frequently inhabit, where they were the only two people in existence, and nothing could ruin it for them.

As soon as they're finished, reality comes flooding back.

Hermione is now even more acutely aware of what she's going to lose, _that night,_ in the Department of Mysteries.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I had a bit of blockage with this chapter, but it's here regardless. And I don't _usually_ do anything like this, but this story is very snapshotty, so if there are any scenes that you'd quite like to see, let me know and if they agree with the overall plot I'll see if they can be slipped in. I fear I may be treading on dangerous ground here but hey, I like to live life on the edge. ;) Hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>For the past twelve years, birthdays have been relegated to mere days.<p>

This year, however, she is woken with breakfast in bed.

"Happy birthday," he says, setting the tray on her lap and crossing to the other side of the bed, making himself comfortable next to her.

She blinks a few times. She's still sleepy and the whole situation is quite bizarre. She's been used to living on her own, and even though he's been here almost a month, there are times when she feels like the rug has been pulled out from under her feet. In a good way.

In an excellent way.

She takes a bite of her toast and leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes. It is a rare and wonderful treat.

"Good?" he asks, clearly wanting to know if he has done well or not.

"Brilliant," she says, taking a sip of tea before continuing with her toast. She's trying to work up the motivation to tackle the rest of it - bacon, eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, baked beans - but dealing with cutlery is far too laborious when she's only been awake for two minutes.

It takes her a full twenty minutes of steady cutting, chewing and swallowing to get through the breakfast, and when she's finished she feels tired, sluggish, and very, very full. Sirius takes the tray from her, and sets it down on the floor beside the bed.

"I need to get up," she says, trying to resist as he traces patterns with his fingertips on the back of her neck.

"Why?"

"I have a job. I know it's an unfamiliar thing to a convicted criminal -"

"It's _Saturday_," he says, trying and failing to disguise an arrogant smirk. "Twelve years in Azkaban, you'd think _I'd _be the one who didn't know what day it is."

It takes a few moments for her to confirm in her head that yes, it is indeed Saturday, and no, she doesn't actually need to get up for work.

It's a wonderful feeling.

Almost as wonderful as the feeling of his fingers on the back of her neck.

When he's kissing her, she thinks that it might just be the best birthday she's ever had.

She wonders if there'll be cake, but Sirius' hands ensure the thought is given no opportunity to linger.

* * *

><p>Outside, it is one of those fabulous early autumn days, where the sun is still hot and the sky is still clear and blue. She wants to go for a walk, but he can't really leave the house, not as a man, anyway, and there's not much point in her going if he can't come too.<p>

Instead they sit in the back garden, hidden from neighbours by high hedges and overhanging tree branches. They drink pumpkin juice and talk of inconsequential things, their hands loosely linked together.

She thinks that perhaps this is what growing old with him would be like - long days in the sunshine, long nights by the fire, and regardless of season or weather, their fingers would always be interlaced. It's nice to be able to close her eyes and know he's still there. It's especially nice to be able to watch him as he lounges in his chair, sun hitting his weathered face, and to know that being outside is one of the greatest things he can experience these days.

She just wishes he could be outside whenever he wanted.

She wishes even more that they could grow old together.

* * *

><p>"It's a bit rubbish," he admits, after she's blown out the candles.<p>

"No..." she says, in her best 'don't be silly' tone. "It's lovely."

The icing is still very wet, and the cake has a large dip in the middle from where he opened the oven too early, but it's not a _disaster_. It looks edible enough, and for someone who hasn't cooked a single thing for twelve years - bar the breakfast - let alone baked a cake, it's a very good effort.

She removes the candles quickly and thanks Merlin that he's just shoved a dozen on, rather than the whole - well, she'd rather not think about the _actual _ number. It _is_ only 1993 after all. She takes a knife and cuts into the cake, passing a slice to Sirius and then taking one for herself.

It's a little bit burnt on the outside and a little bit undercooked on the inside, but she says nothing. Nobody's ever made her a birthday cake - her mother always used to order a special sugar free one from the health food shop in town. This is far greater than that.

Then again, even sardines were far greater than _that_.

She licks the icing from her fingers and pushes her plate aside. It is at this moment that Sirius chooses to place a small wrapped box in front of her.

"Owl order," he says, extinguishing any worries that he might have gone gift shopping in broad daylight surrounded by his own wanted posters.

Hermione smiles and pulls the ribbon off. "You shouldn't have," she says, though if she's being honest, she's rather glad he did.

"I figured I had twelve birthdays and Christmases to make up for," he says with a shrug.

The image of a Firebolt briefly enters Hermione's head, but disappears with the speed that the advertisements promise as soon as she opens the box.

It is a ring.

"Sixteenth century," he says, "Goblin made." He slips it onto her finger - _that finger -_ and Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"Twelve years," he says quietly.

She nods, her eyes fixed on the gleaming silver band. The sapphire weighs a ton, and she's sure it will take a long time to get used to the extra cargo. It feels odd on her hand; it's not just the stone that's weighing it down. It's the fact she's finally been hit by the realisation that twelve years of solitary confinement, squalor, deep depression and fervent obsession could not stop him from loving her.

She thinks this is what being overwhelmed with happiness might be like.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I feel it's only fair to warn you now that the next chapter is currently 0% complete, so chances of it being up tomorrow are a little slim. You can, however, keep track of my frustrations via my twitter (username Flaignhan, link in profile) if you enjoy angry writers venting into the cybersphere. Hope you enjoy this one though - let me know what you think!

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>He's getting anxious.<p>

It doesn't matter how often she tells him Harry is going to be fine, that Peter won't lay a finger on him, (for now at least - though she leaves out _that_ particular detail) he still spends his evenings obsessing over finding him.

It's nearing Halloween, and she knows it won't be long until she wakes up to find him gone. She's dreading it. Even though she knows he'll escape from the castle unscathed on Halloween night, even though she knows he'll break in again and get away with it, she still worries that something will go wrong. Something could change, and she can't allow that.

Or rather, Dumbledore won't let her allow that.

She finds more and more reasons for being angry at him, nearly every day. It had started with Lily and James, then Sirius. She could never forgive him for Sirius. He could have withdrawn his statement, told the Wizengamot that he had believed that to be the case at the time, but had since found new evidence.

He could have stopped the war.

Today she is angry because he never warned her. All those years she was working with Harry, as one of Dumbledore's pawns, and he never once said 'make the most of it, you won't be young forever.' Anything would have been better than nothing. Of course she didn't expect him to tell her outright, but being pulled out of time, right in the middle of the war..._that _was quite possibly the final straw. He never once let on that she would have to live through _three _wars, never once let on that she would have to wait twenty years to find out if her best friends died or not, never once let on that she would fall in love with a man she'd already seen die.

She had plenty of reason to be bitter, but she still obeyed his rules.

For that, she hated herself even more than she hated him.

"Is Peter going to go back to him?"

"What?" she frowns, and looks at Sirius, who has stopped pacing and is now leaning against the mantelpiece.

"Peter. Is he going to go back to -"

"You know I can't answer questions like that," she picks up the nearest book, if only to avoid looking at him, and opens it to any page.

It's a book of crossword puzzles, and she summons her quill in order to keep up the pretence of actually being interested in them.

She can still feel him looking at her.

"So that's a _yes_ then."

"I didn't say that," she doesn't look up, just carefully traces the letters in for three across, then draws a line through the clue, removing it from her list.

"I _have_ to stop him."

He's pacing again, faster this time, and the tiny lounge can barely cope with his long strides.

"_Hermione_."

"What do you want me to say?" she says, slapping the book down on the sofa, finally meeting his eye.

"I want you to tell me that I catch him. I want you to tell me that he won't be responsible for any more deaths."

She picks up the book again. She can't tell him what he wants to hear, and she certainly can't tell him the truth. It would destroy him.

He swipes an ornamental dragon off of the mantelpiece, and it smashes on the hearth, shards of porcelain scattering all over the floor. She gives him a steely look, and after a moment, he takes her wand, repairing the dragon and returning it to its rightful place. He takes a seat in the armchair and sighs heavily, his head in his hands.

She won't feel bad. He's being unreasonable.

"You _know_ I can't tell you," she says quietly. "I'd tell you everything if I could, but I just _can't_."

"I'm going to find him," he sits up, waiting for her to protest.

"Okay."

"_Okay_?"

She nods, and returns to her crossword.

"Everyone'll be down in the Great Hall during the feast," she says. "Seven letters, used in Draught of Living Death..." she looks up, hoping for an answer.

"I...moondew - what?"

"Oh of course," she says, marking in the letters. "Thanks."

"You're not going to stop me?"

"I'm not supposed to interfere, remember?" she's doodling around the edge of the page. She needs to keep busy. She can't stop him. She has to let him go.

"Can I borrow your wand?" he's pushing his luck now, and she can tell by his tone that he knows it just as well as she does.

"You won't need it."

"But what if -"

"You won't need it. You won't be there long. Get out as soon as you can afterwards though. They'll be looking for you."

He stands and paces a little more, before deciding he's ready. Her attitude has thrown him, and she just hopes it makes him be extra careful.

She wouldn't put money on it though.

"I'll...see you soon I guess." He leans down and presses a kiss on the top of her head. She says nothing, she doesn't trust herself to open her mouth. She grabs his hand just as he's about to leave and kisses the back of it. He pauses, touches her cheek gently, then walks out the door.

She hears the front door close quietly behind him, and puts her crossword down.

She goes to bed not long after.

* * *

><p>"You could have told me the password."<p>

"No I couldn't," she's peeling potatoes again. Celestina Warbeck is warbling out of the wireless on the kitchen top. Sirius slams the off button and her ballad is cut short.

Hermione's not too fussed.

"It was a complete waste of time and you knew it! That's why you let me go!"

"I let you go because you went before! I let you go because I knew you'd get back safe! D'you really think that I don't know you're going to run off regardless of what I say anyway? You were always going to!" she pauses to regain her composure. "There's a quidditch match in a few weeks by the way - Harry's playing, you might like to go and watch."

"Oh I might, might I?"

"Yes," she says firmly, putting down her knife and turning to face him. "You might."

He's still angry that she let him go four hundred miles on foot (or paw) just to scratch a painting.

She feels he's learned a lesson though.

At least she hopes he has.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Can't believe we're at chapter eight already! Thanks for all your reviews, and hope you enjoy this update. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>"His broomstick broke."<p>

"I beg your pardon?" she looks up at him, eyebrows creased into a frown.

"Harry. His broomstick broke."

"Oh, I know," she says vaguely, returning her attention to her book.

"I thought I might buy him a new one."

Hermione tries to keep her smile to herself. He's spotted it though.

"What, you think I'm just going to wander into Quality Quidditch Supplies and ask for a Nimbus?"

She shakes her head, her smile growing. "A Nimbus? Really? Bit _old fashioned_." She's teasing. For all she knows there could be a brand new Nimbus 2002 in the shops, but the poor thing's been completely overshadowed by the Firebolt.

"Well _excuse me_ if I'm not up to date. My subscription to _Which Broomstick?_ ran out in 1986 and the Ministry were a bit funny about letting me renew it," he collapses into the chair by the fire that he's more or less claimed as his own in the last couple of months, and turns to Hermione, waiting for her to say something.

"It's a Firebolt," she says, flicking over the page of her book. "Crookshanks'll take the order in for you."

"Can't you?"

"I..." she frowns. If she'd always been here, why on Earth would he have gotten her pet cat to take an order to Quality Quidditch Supplies? Surely it's far more efficient for a human to do it?

Unless...unless whenever he'd mentioned Crookshanks to Harry, Ron, or her younger self, he'd only been talking about a _cat_ on the odd occasion.

"You told Harry that Crookshanks took the order in for you..." she says, trailing off.

"Bit far for the poor ginger sod to go, isn't it?" he picks up the poker by the fireplace and stokes the fire. It's become something of a habit since the weather's taken a nasty turn. Hermione thinks that perhaps he misses the feel of a wand in his hand, and a poker's not far off.

"I'll go in tomorrow," she says, and he nods in thanks.

"Is he all right?" he asks.

"Sorry?"

"Well, he fell about fifty feet."

"He's fine. More worried about who won the match, actually."

"I heard the Diggory boy tell Madam Hooch there should be a rematch. Nice kid."

Hermione frowns. "How do you know Diggory?"

"His mother's looks," there's a slight smirk at this comment. "She was a couple of years above us at school."

"Oh, _was_ she?" she feels a slight burn of jealousy tackle her from nowhere. It's silly. He didn't even _know her_ back then.

His smirk becomes more pronounced as he looks at her. She tries to force her eyes to move across the page of her book, just so she can _pretend_ she's reading, Instead she's staring at the same word, and her brain isn't even registering what it _is_. All she's aware of is the fact that his smirk is becoming almost unbearable.

"So you can just tell them to take the gold from my vault," he's still smirking, but has decided to move on. Harry's Christmas present is by far the most important issue.

"Yeah," she says. "Seven hundred and eleven, right?"

He nods and puts the poker back in its stand. "Nothing like a woman who can remember your bank details."

She gives him one of _those looks_ and he smiles slyly, apparently deciding it's best to quit while he's still in one piece. After all, he doesn't have a wand to defend himself, so it'd be a pretty quick duel.

* * *

><p>She is nervous when she enters the shop the following day. She feels as though aurors are going to leap on her from behind the stands or the mannequins wearing Tutshill Tornado robes. She approaches the counter and a young chirpy wizard greets her enthusiastically.<p>

"What can we do for you today, Madam?"

_Madam._ She hates being called _Madam. _It is a reminder of how old she looks, when technically she's only fourteen.

"I'd like to buy a Firebolt," she says quietly, in the hope that she doesn't attract the attention of the small group of children cooing over toy broomsticks.

The shop assistant's eyes widen just a little. Evidently he wasn't expecting to hear _those words_ come from _her mouth._

"R-right," he stammers. "I'll just fetch the manager."

She drums her fingers on the desk nervously as he disappears into the back room. It seems as though he doesn't have the authority to complete such a transaction. It's a shame. The whole situation would have been a lot easier if some clueless youngster was in charge.

The manager is large and round and looks as though it would take all of the broomsticks in his shop to get him an inch off of the ground. He guides Hermione into his office with a grovelling smile and waves a hand in what he clearly thinks is a gracious (as opposed to pretentious) manner, inviting her to take a seat.

"Alfred tells me you'd like to buy a Firebolt, Miss...?"

"Hopkirk."

It is the first name that enters her head. She doesn't like the idea of too many people knowing her real name, and the Ministry have kept her in a rather low profile job, just to make sure that nobody hears too much of _Hermione Granger_.

"Miss Hopkirk..." he says, his voice as oily as a mechanic's hands. "Unfortunately you _won't_ be able to take the Firebolt away with you today, as it is such an _expensive _item. We have to wait for Gringotts to confirm the funds have been deposited in our account. Unless you're paying cash, of course?"

"No. And that's fine, it's a gift. I'd like you to send it for Christmas day."

"Oh well I'm _sure_ that can be arranged. A _very _generous gift, if you don't mind my saying." He pulls open his desk drawer and extracts a piece of parchment with a flourish. He pushes an ink bottle and an extravagant peacock feather quill towards her before laying the parchment down in front of her.

"If you wouldn't mind filling this in..."

Hermione fills it in as best she can, trying to avoid getting her own details tangled up in it all. When she's done, she hands it back to him, trying to keep her fingers from trembling with nerves. If Gringotts tell him that it's _Sirius'_ bank account...she's in trouble. But the goblins never cared much for wizarding concerns. They'll probably find it _funny_ that an escaped convict is ordering a top of the range broomstick.

"Pardon me, Miss Hopkirk -"

"Yes?" her stomach clenches as he frowns at the form.

"It's being a delivered to Hogwarts, to a Mr H. Potter..."

"_Yes_."

"Is that - I was just wondering if-"

"He's my godson," she lies. It's almost true. Sirius is his godfather, and she _is _Sirius'...well, whatever you want to call it, she's _that_.

"Ahhh..." he says, curiosity satisfied. "I'll make sure he receives the best one we have in stock!"

"Very good," she says, her stomach loosening slightly. "Is that all?"

"Yes, yes," he gets up and opens the door for her. "Have a wonderful day, Miss Hopkirk."

Hermione cringes as she leaves.

If they'd sent Crookshanks, she wouldn't be overwhelmed by nausea and disgust.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This was by far the easiest chapter I've ever written, and it's one of my favourites. Not particularly seasonal (and I love even more that I'm posting it on Good Friday, mwahaha) but still. Well done to those of you that spotted the canon fail in the last chapter - I was over the park walking the dog, checked my emails and swore very loudly several times when I realised. I always check stuff that I'm not sure of, but I didn't feel any weirdness over that bit. Odd. _Anyway_, hope you enjoy this, hopefully accurate chapter.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She wakes late on Christmas morning, as she has done every Christmas for the last twelve years. Like birthdays, Christmas Day has also been relegated to a mere day. The first couple of years she tried to bring a little cheer into her life - a turkey for her and Remus, some Christmas crackers and a bit of tinsel here and there. The false happiness soon wore off though, and Remus hasn't spent Christmas at her place for nigh on a decade.<p>

Sirius isn't next to her. It's odd. He usually sleeps later than her - after all, he has a lot of comfortable bed time to be catching up on.

It's only when she sits up, breathing in deeply in an attempt to oxygenate her brain in order to get it going that she realises she can _smell_ something.

Not only that, but she can hear Sirius, crashing about in the kitchen, pots and pans clattering on counter tops, and on top of _that_ she can distinctly make out the lyrics of _Hark! The Hippocampus Sings_ being belted out in a half tuneful sort of way. It's a wonder she didn't wake up any sooner.

She pads downstairs, dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, though she doesn't need it. The kitchen is pleasantly warm, the window panes filled almost to the top with a thin layer of steam. There's a even a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and Sirius takes advantage of it as soon as he sees her.

"Morning," he says cheerfully. He's in better spirits than she's seen him for a long long time, and she wonders if it has anything to do with the open bottle of Firewhiskey sitting on the kitchen table. She raises an eyebrow and he shows her the beginnings of a Christmas pudding he's been working on.

"You're supposed to let them mature for a few weeks..." she says, feeling slightly guilty about bursting his bubble.

"Really?" he checks his recipe, his eyes scanning down until his shoulders sag and he realises she's right.

"I'm sure we can speed it up a bit though," she says, stifling a yawn. "There'll be a spell in one of my books..."

Sirius regains his enthusiasm, and opens the oven door to show her a turkey far larger than necessary considering there are only two of them.

"Where did you get it?" she asks, and he closes the oven door, smiling proudly.

"Farm," he says simply.

"You _stole it_?"

"No!" he replies, looking mildly affronted. "I bought it off of the farmer!"

"But...you're _wanted!_"

"Yeah, and have you seen the picture they've put out of me? I'm a right state, but now I look like an upstanding member of society. It's fine."

"He could have -"

"Called the muggle police?" he snorts.

She sighs. He has a point, but his recklessness still worries her. She should be used to it by now of course, but the closer they get to _that day_ the more she frets about him. It's silly. His future is secured by his death. He's going to be absolutely fine until _that day_, so she needn't worry.

And yet still she does.

"I've got some parsnips and some honey as well," he tells her, and she realises he's been talking for at least a minute. She shakes off all thoughts of the Department of Mysteries. It's Christmas after all.

"Sounds good!" she says, and the way he smiles and looks away tells her without any doubt that he knows she's forcing herself to be enthusiastic.

She makes a cup of tea, trying not to get in his way as he consults his list of what has to be done and by when. He's getting ahead of himself a little - he's already prepared the vegetables and they won't even need to be cooked for another three hours or so. She supposes keeping busy helps him to feel alive while he's stuck in this tiny house with only her for company. Maybe planning this big Christmas surprise is all that's been keeping him going for the last few weeks.

She takes her tea into the lounge, and her eyebrows leap up high on her forehead.

There is a _Christmas tree._

The cynic in her, the one that's been infecting her and growing ever more potent for the last twelve years, is almost offended by the sight of it. It is so large that the top of it is squashed against the ceiling, the star hanging off of it at a very precarious angle. It has a fine wisp of silver tinsel winding its way elegantly upwards, and small, animated decorations hanging from the branches. She frowns when she sees her wand laying on the coffee table.

"I borrowed it," he says, taking off his apron (she has no _idea_ where he dug _that_ up from) and sitting down in his armchair.

"The tree?"

"Your _wand_. I _bought_ the tree. They were selling them next door to the farm where I got the turkey. Picked it up when you were at work yesterday..."

"Where did you get the money?"

He looks a little sheepish at this. "I might have gone out late the other night and used one of those money hole thingy-majiggs."

"Cash machine?"

He nods. "You can use a confundus charm on them, providing you don't ask for too much. The Ministry detects it if you push it too far."

Long ago, and we're talking a very long time ago. Probably around about now, actually, Hermione would have been horrified by the idea of him stealing money from muggle banks. Now, bitter old crone that she is, she just rolls her eyes and sits down, taking a sip of her tea.

* * *

><p>By the end of the night, Hermione is stuffed full of turkey and Christmas pudding. She has heard enough terrible cracker jokes to last a lifetime and she has grown rather fond of the gigantic Norwegian pine that has taken up residence in her living room.<p>

A couple of glasses of Firewhiskey may have played their part in loosening her up a little, but as she lays on the sofa, her head in Sirius' lap while he twists her hair around his fingertips, there is a part of her that wishes it really could be Christmas everyday.

It's cheesy, she's oh so horribly aware of that, and it'd be a right nuisance when it comes to earning a living, but today she's felt more content than she can remember.

She doesn't want it to end.

They linger downstairs much later than usual, an easy silence falling between them, and it's only when the fire completely dies that they decide it's time for bed. It's cold upstairs and she shivers as she climbs under the duvet. He holds her close, and his body heat warms her enough to keep her teeth from chattering.

She's on the brink of sleep when he says something that makes her pull his arms more tightly around her body, her hands interlocking with his as they rest against her stomach.

"I never thought I'd get another Christmas with you."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Okay, a couple of things - first, Doctor Who's back tonight, so updates may or may not be unreliable this week, depending on how many times I can actually sit and re-watch it. Second, I got the Deathly Hallows PC game last night and...well it's quite addictive. This also may or may not result in unreliable updates. Third, you're all lovely for reviewing and I'd like to bake every single on of you a cake. (Unfortunately the logistics of this make it nigh on impossible for me to do so, but it's the thought that counts, right?) Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>January fades in a blur of chilly dampness, and February dawns with dustings of snow.<p>

They are now in a routine. Sirius keeps himself busy by cooking and cleaning, while Hermione heads out to work each day with varying degrees of boredom and frustration. He has had to learn to do things the muggle way, and while it certainly helps him pass the time, it does nothing for his mood.

"I need my wand back," he says.

"Where is it?" she asks.

"At my _mother's house_," his tone is dark, his brow hanging low in a scowl.

She doesn't know what to say. He didn't have a wand when they were all at the Shrieking Shack, and she's not sure he had a wand during the Triwizard Tournament either. She supposes she could go and get it for him providing he _only_ uses it in the house...but he's not likely to keep that promise.

He's not even likely to make the promise.

"They've probably got aurors watching the place twenty four seven," she tells him. This doesn't matter in the slightest. Hermione is fully capable of casting a powerful enough disillusionment charm to remain unseen for the few seconds it takes for her to to apparate onto the doorstep and go inside, but she won't tell him this. It would only make things difficult.

"I _know_," he says, teeth gritted. "I _need it_ though. I feel so _useless_."

"Well you'll just have to cope without it for now."

"And what am I supposed to do when I find _him_?"

They've taken to not saying his name aloud. It only makes him sound human.

"He hasn't got a wand either. It'll be a fair fight."

"Oh you think so?"

She sighs. He's determined to catch him, determined to put things right, determined to see the last breath leave his traitorous little body.

She doesn't have the heart to tell him that all his attempts are completely futile.

* * *

><p>Sirius' frustrations at being rendered a muggle continue to grow as February blitzes through. March's weak rays of sunlight lift his mood a little - he can sit in the garden again, but far too often his optimistic sunbathing has been sabotaged by a heavy and unexpected shower.<p>

Hermione doesn't know what to do with him. She considers going to get his wand several times - she thinks perhaps if he can use a little bit of magic around the house his spirits might lift. But she can't trust him, not when it comes to Peter.

She feels guilty (but what's new?) that he's locked up in her house, on his own for most of the week with only a small, often wet garden for him to venture into. It's more comfortable than Azkaban, for sure, but he's no freer in here than he was in his cell.

By the time April arrives, the sunshine is a little more reliable. She comes home one day to find him digging in the garden. She watches him for a few moments - he's unaware she's there, and when he turns to her, he wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Just practising for when I catch Peter," he says, his teeth glinting in a mildly dangerous but playful smile.

She laughs and steps out onto the patio. There is fresh compost lining the right hand side of the garden, and he's now working his way down the left.

"Flowerbeds?" she asks, mildly amused.

He nods, stamping on top of the shovel to sink it deeper into the earth. "If I plant stuff now, by the summer it'll all be in bloom."

He won't be here to see it, but he doesn't know that yet. He'll be in some exotic country with Buckbeak, and there won't be any rain to ruin his mood.

There won't be any roof for him to sleep under, or any food for him to eat, but she knows he'll be all right.

If he can spend twelve years in Azkaban, live in a cave eating rats (she wonders how much his choice of delicacy is related to his desire to obliterate Peter) then he'll be fine wherever he ends up.

* * *

><p>"So what next?" he asks, jabbing the fire with the poker.<p>

Hermione consults the calendar, skewing her lips from side to side as she racks her brains, trying to extract the date of the Gryffindor Slytherin quidditch match. It's in late May, she knows that much, and it's a Saturday too...but he has to go a few days before to meet Crookshanks and get hold of the passwords...

"Nothing for a few weeks," she says.

He sighs loudly, tilting his head back against the chair to stare at the ceiling.

"Well you can go now if you _like_. But nothing's going to happen and you'll just be hungry and cold and you won't have anywhere to sleep."

He ignores her.

Most likely because he knows she's right.

"I'm going to need to get into the tower this time. I can't have another episode like I did at Halloween."

She knows exactly what _that_ means. Four words would have sufficed.

_Tell me the password._

"You'll figure it out..." she says, searching the shelf under the coffee table for her crossword book. It comes in handy during conversations like this, although she's nearing the end, and _must_ get a new one soon.

She can't possibly hope to survive without her false distraction.

He'll be gone soon though, and the pressure on her will be eased.

It's a very selfish thought, and she tries to retract it as soon as it's formed in her head, but that's a very difficult process. She's always going to know that she thought it, and she's always going to know exactly what she meant. It'll be even worse after _that night_, and she knows it is all she will remember whenever she thinks of their time together.

She holds him tightly that night, in an attempt to appease her guilt.

It doesn't work.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Ohhhhh this was a difficult one. Still, it's here now. I hope you all had a lovely chocolate day, and that you aren't feeling too sick from it all. Thanks for your reviews, and I hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>Even though she's been expecting it for months, it's still a shock when she wakes up to find him gone.<p>

The match isn't for another couple of days, so she doubts he'll be home before Monday, if he decides it's worth coming home at all. Maybe he'll choose to stay up there, hunting Peter - or maybe his desire for creature comforts will overrule his obsession for a couple of weeks and he'll return home.

There is a distinct heavy sluggishness to her steps as she walks downstairs. She knows she'd better get a shift on if she wants to make it into work on time, but somehow she can't bring herself to be bothered.

She opens the kitchen drawer and finds that the knife is indeed gone. The mental note she made to replace it has apparently gone astray. She has no spare, and it is with a great deal of effort that she cuts off a couple of slices of bread with a knife that is far too short for the job.

She puts the bread in the toaster and switches the kettle on. While she waits, she leans against the counter, arms folded over her dressing gown.

The house seems less bright.

She rubs tiredly at her eyes and the kettle clicks off the boil. She dumps a couple of sugars into her tea, and stirs, the clink of metal on china piercing her eardrums unpleasantly each time the teaspoon knocks against the inside of the cup. She sniffs the air.

Something is burning.

Right on cue, her toast pops up. It is dark brown, black around the edges. There are still little spirals of smoke rising from it.

She swears. Loudly.

_He_ likes his toast 'well done'.

_She_ always tells him to turn the toaster setting back down to three after he's used it.

It's a good job he's not here - he wouldn't have made it to midday in one piece.

If the first ten minutes of her day are anything to go by, Hermione's not sure she will either.

* * *

><p>She wants to get in touch with him, check up on him, but she's got no means to do so. Well, she could send him a patronus message, but he has no wand with which to reply, and the reply is the thing that matters. For all the good sending a patronus message would do, she may as well talk to thin air.<p>

It's lonely, sitting in the lounge by herself. It's too warm for her to even get the fire going. It's always been a source of comfort, the faint crackling a healthy bit of background noise.

She looks at the poker, and then at his chair.

It's silly. It's _so_ _very_ silly. She spent twelve years alone. She dealt with it. She was _fine_.

So why is it so tough now?

She goes to bed early that night, breathing deeply as she tries to fall asleep.

If she claws enough air into her lungs and has her head close enough to his pillow, she can just about smell him.

* * *

><p>The weekend was excruciating. On Sunday, however, there had been nothing in the <em>Daily Prophet<em> about Sirius' break in, and part of her wondered if he'd actually gone ahead with it or not.

Of course he had. He'd travelled hundreds of miles as a dog, there was no way he wasn't going to try and use the opportunity to finish Peter once and for all.

It's Monday now, and Hermione's trying to get through the day with a level head and adequate efficiency. Her colleagues do _not_ make it easy for her.

"They've seen him!" Roberta hisses, throwing the _Prophet_ down on Miles' desk. He puts on his glasses and squints at the small font.

"Just south of Edinburgh?" he sits back in his chair, fingers interlaced and resting against his stomach. "What's he doing up there?"

Roberta shrugs and holds the article up to show Hermione.

"'Ere," she says, and Hermione lets her eyelids drop as she tries to pull every piece of patience she has to the surface of her being. If Roberta starts a sentence with a poorly pronounced 'here', it's never going to be one the listener is going to agree with or _like_.

"Yes?" Hermione says, turning in her seat to face her.

"You must be about the same age as him."

"I suppose so," she grabs a new form and dips her quill into her ink pot. She wishes she had her crossword book.

"And you were in Gryffindor, weren't you?"

"Yes..."

"So you must have known him, mustn't you?"

_Lie, Hermione, lie._

"Oh she knew him all right," Lucinda Bowles has strutted in, too much make up and too high heels (some things never change). "The Minister would like you to make this your top priority, all right Hermione?" she lays a stack of parchment on Hermione's desk.

Hermione has to work hard not to choke on the smell of perfume.

"What d'you mean?" Roberta asks Lucinda.

"They were an _item_," Lucinda says scandalously, her lips twisted into a satisfied smile. "Didn't you move in with him, after school?"

Hermione's eyes are watering from the perfume, and it's a good job too. Tears are tears, no matter what's caused them, and she exaggerates it just a little bit, constricting her throat in the hope that when she speaks, it will be in a hoarse, croaky tone.

"I _thought_ I knew him. There's a difference."

A tear drops, right on cue, and she stands up, leaving the office in what she hopes is taken as an offended, but dignified exit.

She wipes her eyes as she walks down the corridor, and disapparates to Diagon Alley.

Having your romance with a convicted murderer brought up in the office is enough to make _anybody_ go AWOL. It would be unconvincing if she returned after a couple of minutes.

She heads to Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour.

Her biggest worry for the next hour is whether she ought to choose mint chocolate chip or lemon sorbet.

* * *

><p>He's sitting in his chair when she returns that evening. He's staring into space, not really seeing anything. He's most likely in a terrible mood, and she slips her coat and shoes off quietly, not wishing to disturb him.<p>

"_That close_," he says at last, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. He turns to look at her, and his eyes seem much older than they were when he left.

"I know," she says softly, sitting on the edge of his chair and slipping her arm around him. "I know."

"He was _there_ -"

"I _know_."

"Am I _ever_ going to do it?" he asks. "Am I ever going to -"

She stands up abruptly. "You know you can't ask questions like that," her voice has turned hard, but it's for his own good.

"I _need to know_ -"

Hermione shakes her head and leaves the room.

It is a while before he comes into the kitchen. He stands behind her, so very close, but there is still a gap. A gap she wishes he would close.

"He sleeps like James does," he says, before adding in a broken voice, "_Did_."

"What?"

"On his front, with his arms and legs all over the place."

"Harry?"

"Yeah."

She smiles. She never saw how James slept, but she's seen Harry sleep like that, and can just imagine James doing the same.

"The kid you scared the living daylights out of -" she says, once the image has faded.

"The ginger one?"

"That's Ron. Ron Weasley."

"The boy from the newspaper."

"Yeah."

"Good kid?"

Hermione nods, and crosses her arms over her stomach.

She misses him, brave, volatile oaf that he was.

She misses everyone.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Updates are going to be a bit slower from now on - back to uni on Sunday and have two assignments due in the first three days! Eek! Still, hopefully updates will still be steady, and I'll always be updating my chapter to bitch about how this thing won't write itself. ;) Thanks for all your reviews, they're absolutely super. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She can pinpoint the exact moment he decides he's going to leave.<p>

It's just ticked past three in the morning, and his arm snakes around her waist, pulling her closer. His lips graze against her neck, and he kisses her softly.

Apparently he thinks there's a good chance he's going to get caught, but he's still prepared to take the risk.

She twists around to face him, and trails her hand down his chest. He closes his eyes contentedly, and her hand finds its way to his hair (as it always does, it feels very at home there). Her fingers twist in his mop of greying hair. It's still as smooth as it was when he was younger.

It is only a short while before he's had enough of waiting, and he kisses her, the passion building and building with each tick of the clock.

Part of her can almost believe they're seventeen again.

When she wakes up, he's gone.

* * *

><p>She spends the next couple of days feeling very <em>very<em> nervous. Her stomach is constantly tying itself into knots, squirming and squidging, contracting and twisting. She feels like she ought to make sure everything goes according to plan.

This is the trouble when you know the fine details of everything - it all has to be just as perfect the second time around.

There is a small piece in the _Daily Prophet_ about Buckbeak's impending execution. It's written by a gleeful Ministry devotee journalist, probably one who's been given a sizeable pile of galleons by Lucius Malfoy to get the public on side, to turn them against Hagrid, and more importantly, turn them against Dumbledore.

Last time he tried that, he lost a house elf.

The next time he tries it, he'll wind up in Azkaban.

She smirks, and puts the newspaper down.

In order to put her mind at rest, she grabs a quill, her ink pot and a clean roll of parchment and pens a - she wouldn't call it a _letter_, per se - short note to Dumbledore.

_Put him in Flitwick's office._

_Three turns should do it._

_HG_

Her intestines feel a little more at ease as she watches the post owl soar off into the distance, her instructions tied securely to his leg, with several protective charms ensuring that no nosy intruders are able to intercept the owl.

The rest of the day passes slowly, and she stays late at the office, getting ahead with her work. She knows if she goes home that time will almost stop progressing altogether.

* * *

><p>She wakes in the middle of the night. There's a soft thudding in the distance, and once her mind focuses she realises it's the beating of wings.<p>

Large wings.

She jumps out of bed and pulls her dressing gown on. By the time she reaches the kitchen she can see Buckbeak through the window, grooming himself, his amber eyes still set on Sirius no matter which angle he tilts his head at.

Hermione unlocks the back door and Sirius pulls her into a hug. They say nothing for a few minutes, and Buckbeak is apparently bored with the situation. He sets himself down on the ground with little regard for Sirius' well kept flowerbeds, his back hooves splaying through the neat rows of red and yellow tulips.

"I'm sorry," she says at last, pulling away from him so she can look him in the eye. She needs to gauge how upset he is, but it's impossible. There's something other than vengeance set in his gaze. Something that makes her heart swell, just a little.

She hasn't felt like that for a long while.

"He wanted to live with me!" he says, his smiling growing wider by the second. "He wanted to move in with me straight away!"

He's so excited, and it doesn't matter that he almost lost his _soul_ tonight, it doesn't matter that Peter's escaped _again_, all that matters is that Harry doesn't _hate _him.

"His _eyes_, my _god_. It's just like looking at Lily. Except - he's like James, and - and -"

He laughs, and pulls Hermione close again, burying his face in her hair. After a few moments, his giddiness peters out.

"Is Ron all right?" he asks, his tone becoming more serious, his eyebrows closer together.

"He'll be fine."

Sirius nods, and then a smirk begins to grow. "I saw _you_."

"You did," she replies, her lips set in a wide smile.

"How did you manage to get me out? I thought they had you and Harry holed up in the hospital wing?"

She tells him quickly about the time turner, her nerves growing the longer he stays. People are going to be _looking for him._ And not only that, but they'll be looking for the bloody great hippogriff that's digging up her garden as well.

"You're mad," he says. "What's the point of doing _Muggle Studies_? You're muggle _born!_"

She rolls her eyes and opens the fridge. He's going to need to take as much food as he can with him, and a wave of her wand sees that every slice of bread she has gets buttered by floating knives. Another wave sees an array of sandwich fillings float out of the fridge and arrange themselves neatly on top of the bread.

"You must be hungry," he says, leaning against the door jamb.

She rolls her eyes again. "I'm going to put a _preserving_ charm on them," she says. "So you can take them with you."

"With me?"

_Oh_.

"You said you were going south." It's not a _total_ lie. Really, he won't say it for another month or so, and he'll say it to Harry in a letter, but with all the excitement this evening, she doubts he'll remember _not_ saying it.

"I'd better pack a bag, hadn't I?" he disappears upstairs and returns a few minutes later with a tatty rucksack thrown over his shoulder.

Hermione takes one look at the rucksack and tuts. It's already full and he doesn't have any food in there. She empties it out on the kitchen table and takes a look inside, twiddling her wand between her fingertips. It's been a long time since she's had to cast _this_ particular charm, and it's almost like having to get back on a bicycle after years of not riding one. She's not really forgotten it, but everything's all out of sync, she's unsure, and a little bit nervous.

"What?" he asks.

She ignores him, concentrating, and casts the spell. She throws a set of robes into it and they disappear, as though into a bottomless pit. She reaches in, and yes, right down the bottom, she manages to close her hand around the fabric.

"Undetectable extension charm," she tells him, putting his things back into his rucksack quickly.

"You're brilliant," he says, his smile growing wider. "Utterly _brilliant_."

"Always the tone of surprise..." She summons the sandwiches and they too drop into the pit of the rucksack. She opens the kitchen cupboards, trying to find anything he can take with him that will stave off his hunger. She finds a carton of pumpkin juice, some baked beans and some tinned spaghetti.

It's hardly a Michelin star set up, but it'll have to do.

She hands him the rucksack.

"When will I see you again?" he asks.

"November."

He sighs and looks at her sadly.

"It'll be here before you know it," she tells him.

"You know the time turner, is that how you -"

"_No_." Her tones gets the point across and he doesn't ask any more questions about _the incident_.

"Right," he says, nodding. "I guess I'd best be off then."

He kisses her, and the feeling of his lips lingers on hers long after he's pulled away.

He walks to the doorway and turns, taking one last look at her.

"I love you," he says.

"I know."

He grins, and Hermione watches from the window as Sirius and Buckbeak climb higher and higher into the sky.

She doesn't know where he's going, but it'll be sunny and warm and tropical.

She's really quite jealous.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Here we are again! This chapter was particularly stubborn, and then the deadline for an un-started assignment started looming over my head and suddenly it all just came out. Thanks to those of you who continue to review every chapter - it does mean the world and helps to keep me motivated. Oh _and _mucho gracias to anyone here who reviewed Traces and The Abandoned Boys. (If you haven't read them yet then you can find them quite easily on my profile page XD ) Anyway, enough rambling, I'm off to rewatch Doctor Who. Again.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>She gets used to being alone again, and it's a good job too.<p>

The time is passing slowly, but eventually July breaks brightly through the clouds, causing the bemused witches, wizards and muggles of the British Isles to blink and squint in confusion.

The garden is looking splendid. All of Sirius' work in the spring time has paid off; flowers and the shrubs are in full bloom, the grass greener than ever.

She spends a lot of time out there, reading the newspapers with a bizarre sense of déjà vu. Eventually she has to break out the sunglasses, and although they shield her eyes from the sun, they don't do much to protect her from the increasingly troubling headlines.

Bertha Jorkins has been missing for a few months already, and that poor old man Frank Bryce has also been found dead. She feels tired this summer, not because of her age (she _is_ only fourteen after all...technically) but because the brief period of peace, lonely as it was, is finally drawing to a bloody and dangerous close.

The closer they get to the war, the closer Hermione gets to losing Sirius.

She'd like to have another _incident_, but this time take him with her, back to Victorian times or even further, so they can live out their lives safely in the past, not a fear nor a worry about Voldemort.

It's selfish of course. She's still Harry's best friend, regardless of _incidents_, and she vowed she would stick this out with until the very end.

But even so, it would be nice to disappear.

Again.

She hasn't heard much from Sirius. She's sent a few food parcels off, wrapped in the important pages from the _Daily Prophet_. Truth be told there aren't that many of them, but she includes the crossword for him, he always missed it in Azkaban. A brief note delivered by an exotic bird with vivid plumage drops in front of her from time to time, assuring her he is well, sending her his best wishes and thanking her for her parcels. He never signs his name, not even as Snuffles, but he leaves a small, delicately penned _x_ at the bottom of the parchment.

A smile always forms unconsciously on her face as her eyes take it in, and she folds each letter carefully, before filing it away in her desk drawer.

She wants to keep a hold of every ounce of him that she can. One day soon he'll be gone, and the little _x_'s will mean the world to her.

* * *

><p>Part of her is tempted to go to the world cup so she can help out when things go bad, she feels the need to get out of the house and <em>do something<em>. She needs to help the cause, and after fifteen years of doing paperwork in various generic Ministry offices, shifting around from department to department with a gradually increasing wage (but never rank) she wants to get out _there_ and fire off a few hexes.

When she saw the price of the tickets she was less keen.

She's already been once though, it's no big deal if she misses it this time. Maybe Dumbledore will let her join the Order at the end of the year, _properly_ this time, not as a house maid. That would be exactly the kind of thing she needs.

Eventually she is greeted one morning by a brown owl waiting patiently for its money, a copy of the _Daily Prophet _held fast in its beak. Once Hermione's two knuts have been dropped into its pouch, the newspaper is released, and unfurls itself on the kitchen table, revealing a large black and white picture of the dark mark, glittering over the woods she had hidden in with Harry and Ron all that time ago.

The article doesn't interest her much, she's read it before and has no inclination to force her brain to process the ill informed dirge again.

She half expects Sirius to show up on her doorstep at any second, but there's a part of her that knows deep down that he won't.

His next letter will be longer though, she's sure of it.

* * *

><p>"Hermione!"<p>

She drops her crossword book and looks around, wand held tightly in her fingers. She knows the voice, but she has no idea how she can be _hearing_ it. _In here_.

"Down here!"

Her eyes drop to the fireplace and his head is suspended in the grate. She doesn't know whether it's the weather where he is, or the orange glow of the fire around him, but his skin is much darker than it had been the night he left.

"Have you got a _sun tan_?" she demands.

"Well, not much to do except relax by the beach," he says, grinning, and she can tell by the twitch of his head that he's shrugging his invisible (to her at least) shoulders.

"Where are you?" she asks, getting to the floor and crawling towards him on her knees.

"Isle of Wight," he says.

"That's what you call _south_?"

"I needed to pop back to use the floo!"

"Right, where were you before that though?"

"Morocco...before that Barbados."

At the mention of Barbados, Hermione looks at him sharply. She's jealous. So very jealous. Yes, he's a convicted criminal on the run for his life, but he's having a bloody good time of it.

_Barbados indeed._

"Harry said he was going to the world cup -"

"He's _fine_. I promise."

He looks relieved, and his head turns to look behind him.

"I need to be quick," he says. "I don't know how long they'll be out for."

She nods, wishing the owner of the house would stay out all night, all week, even all month.

"Can't you -"

"Come through?" he's already guessed what she wants before she can finish the sentence. "I'm not sure Buckbeak would fit, are you?"

She sighs, conceding that he has a fair point.

"He's coming, isn't he? That dark mark at the world cup -"

"Yeah," she says, "he is."

"How long do we have? Is Harry safe?"

She can't really tell him anything, but if she _doesn't_ then he'll take that as a no, and try to intervene.

"He was fine when I..." she doesn't know how to refer to _the incident_ in first person, and it takes her a few moments to settle on a word. "...left. That was in our seventh year, okay?"

He seems satisfied, and it's not even a lie. Yes, Harry's going to get a few knocks along the way, but considering a mass murderer is after him it's not a particularly bad outcome.

He's going to be much more damaged on the inside than out over the next few years, but instead of dwelling on it, she asks Sirius to tell her about Morocco.

When the war's over, when she needs to learn to live again, she might start there.

And then move on to Barbados, naturally.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **I should definitely be doing assignments now but...well. You know how it is. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>Summer fades too quickly this year, and she can tell he's getting stronger.<p>

The autumn leaves are drained of colour, all of them a wishy washy brown as opposed to the earthy reds, greens and yellows that used to make her feel so _warm_ despite the cold turn of the weather. It's like she's viewing the world through a filter, and she wonders whether the whole lot will eventually turn to greyscale.

News of the Triwizard Tournament has been announced in the _Prophet_, and a few days later, Sirius' head pops up in her fireplace again.

"Tell me Harry doesn't get mixed up in this," he begs, but he already knows the answer.

"He's Harry," she tells him, "Of _course_ he gets mixed up in it."

"But he'll be all right? You promise me he'll be all right?"

"He won't die, if that's what you mean."

Sirius gives her a dark look. He knows there are things worse than dying. Frank and Alice Longbottom found that one out the hard way.

"If he gets hurt, and you could have stopped it -"

Hermione almost expects to see his finger jabbing at her pointedly from the fire, but his eyes are accusatory enough, his words filling her with a hot rage.

"If I could have stopped anything from happening, Harry would still have parents!" she hisses. "You know my position, don't you _dare_ go making me feel guilty for not going and picking him up when he scrapes his knee, don't you _dare_."

She struts off, and leaves him floating in the fireplace.

She goes to bed that night angry and self righteous.

She still misses him.

He only said it because he loves Harry and wants to keep him safe.

She _really_ misses him.

* * *

><p>It's late when the knock at the back door sounds, and Hermione is half way up the stairs, on her way to bed. She darts into the kitchen, tapping the lock with her wand, her eyes fixed on his through the panes of glass. There is a gentle click and the door swings open.<p>

Sirius strides in, his clothes ragged and dirty, his hair longer and more unkempt than ever. His scraggy beard is greying in parts, and she thinks that as relaxing as Barbados may have been, it could do nothing to stop recent events from ageing him drastically.

"He's in the damn _tournament_," Sirius growls. "It's _supposed_ to be for seventeen year olds - he's only just turned _fourteen_."

"I _know_," she says, because it's all she can ever say. He presses a crumpled piece of parchment into her hand, and she recognises the uncoordinated handwriting immediately as Harry's. It almost feels like a little piece of home, seeing the words that he's written. Somehow, she's not been able to bring herself round to the idea that she and Harry and Ron are living at Hogwarts _now_, that all this stuff is the _present_. It just feels like she's retelling a story, that the walk around the lake the morning after the announcement of the champions couldn't possibly have taken place twelve hours ago, it was a lifetime ago, in some far off country, in another universe.

"You said he wouldn't _die_ -"

"And I meant it -"

"No," he says, interrupting. "You said it as though something bad _does_ happen to him."

"He's Harry, he didn't exactly draw the longest straw in life, did he?"

"He's in danger!"

"He'll be all right!" she says, grabbing him by the arm, if only to stop his dizzying pacing, back and forth in the small kitchen.

"Who put his name in that cup?" he demands, taking a step towards her.

She takes a step back, knocking into the kitchen counter, her elbow sending a mug clattering into the sink.

Neither of them pay it any attention.

He is looming over her, his face concealed by shadow, and Hermione wishes that the lights were on. For the first time in her life she can feel a prickle of fear around him, and she hates it, hates it more than anything she's ever felt in her life. If only the lights were on...he wouldn't be half as intimidating.

"_Tell me_."

"You know I can't!"

He grabs her roughly by the wrist, his bony hands digging tight into her arm.

He's _hurting_ her.

"_Tell me!_"

"Let go!" she struggles, trying to shake him off, trying to move backwards but there's nowhere for her to go, he has her cornered and she wishes, oh she wishes so much she had taken some note of Lupin's warnings. They are a year old now, but the words are still fresh in her mind.

_They say he's unhinged._

"Tell me who put his name in!" he grabs her other wrist, to prevent her from pushing him away, his body pressed up against her own to keep her from writhing out of his grip. She can feel his breath on her face and wonders why on earth he hadn't packed a toothbrush before he'd left.

"You're _hurting me!_" she cries, and her words come out choked, her throat is clogged with panic.

"You know who put his name in!"

"Let _go!_"

There is a bang, and Sirius is thrown across the room, colliding with the opposite wall. Hands shaking, Hermione grabs her wand, wiping tears she didn't know she had shed from her face.

Her wrists feel like they've been moulded into a new shape, a shape that accommodates his hands perfectly, like the handlebar grips on a bicycle. She sniffs, new tears of shock and hurt dropping down her cheeks.

Sirius looks up at her from the floor, and he is no longer a man controlled by his obsession. He's a child, confused as to where his rage had come from, upset that he could hurt the person he loves. She can see it in his eyes, just as clearly as if he'd written it on his forehead.

She doesn't lower her wand.

"I'm sorry," he says, not bothering to move. "I just - I'm...I'm scared."

She doesn't know what to say. She understands, of course she does, but _he_ should understand.

He should never hurt her.

Ever.

He blinks rapidly and moves his hands to his face, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"You did wandless magic," he says after a while, his voice muffled by his palms.

"Yeah."

"So you must have been scared."

"Yeah."

"Of me."

"Yeah."

His shoulders shake, his hands pressing tighter against his face. She lowers her wand, crouching down and putting an arm around him.

"I'm so _so_ sorry."

She knows, and the bruises which are already forming around her wrist feel like little individual betrayals, little lessons learned.

"You're not going to lose him," she whispers. "He's Harry, he's going to be all right. I promise."

It's one of the few promises she can make.

Sirius will be dead long before Harry faces any _real_ danger.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, and he repeats the words, over and over and over.

For the first time she sees the broken man that he is.

He needn't apologise, she forgave him as soon as she saw the regret in his eyes.

She's a fool, she knows it. They won't speak of this again, and she won't tell another soul.

Especially not Lupin. They need to stick together. They're going to be torn apart far too soon to justify spending time worrying over bruised wrists.

They stay on the kitchen floor until the sun comes up.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Okay, firstly, thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter - nearing the 100 mark now and it's super exciting. Secondly, waterflower20 has asked me to notify you guys of a livejournal community auction in aid of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) in which her beta Maria Binger is taking part. So head over to the LJ community stop_sids if you're interested in that.

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>She wishes she could stick her head in the fireplace too, just to get a glimpse of Harry, a glimpse of the common room she had once called home.<p>

It had been the safest place on earth, that common room, and she yearns to still be there, curled up in her four poster bed, or else sitting by the fire with Ron and Harry, trying (and failing) to win just _one_ game of wizard's chess.

But no, she is sitting by the fire in her own house, which, despite its protective enchantments, is about as safe as a bet with Ludo Bagman.

Sirius is watching the clock with ever decreasing patience. There are still five minutes left to go and he's picking at a loose thread on the arm of his chair, twining it around his fingers, tugging at it, brushing it away, and then he starts all over again, his teeth gritted, eyes still fixed on the second hand of the clock, glaring at it with each tick.

Hermione glances up at him, then back down at her crossword.

"Montrose Magpies chaser, died in collision with a helicopter..." she sucks the end of her quill thoughtfully; she remembers James joking about it, a long time ago, but she can't quite grasp the name from her memory.

"Fabius Watkins," he says quietly, and Hermione blinks, counting the letters in her head and seeing if they fit in the allotted squares. She inks them in, and moves back to her list of clues. That one hadn't lasted nearly enough to be considered a _distraction_, and so she searches for a tricky one, one that will make him stop looking at that _bloody clock_. Eventually, she comes across one that she can answer herself in a heartbeat (it's a with a little bit of regret and shame that she admits that) but she guesses Sirius will have a little more trouble.

"Capital of Burkina Faso, where Gilderoy Lockhart saved a town from a series of savage attacks - oh _honestly_. They can't possibly still think he _did_ all that."

"Lockhart?" he asks, frowning and turning his attention on her.

"Yes," she says, amazed that her plan has actually _worked_, with _Lockhart_ of all people.

"That blond idiot who was in the year above - well, you wouldn't remember," he looks back at the clock again.

"Well, he _is_ blonde...and he _is_ an idiot. He was our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in second year."

Again, he turns away from the clock, this time wearing a disgusted expression. "You're kidding!"

She shakes her head. "He was the only one that applied though, so... well. He's in St Mungo's now...had an accident with a memory charm..."

Sirius raises his eyebrows momentarily, and his eyes fall back on the clock once more.

Hermione sighs as she writes Ouagadougou into the crossword and strikes out the clue with a harsh dash of her quill.

Finally, one o'clock arrives.

He's on his knees in front of the fireplace in the blink of an eye and handful of floo powder turning the flames emerald green with a small _puff_.

It's odd watching it happen - she can't hear a single word Sirius or Harry are saying, all she can see is the back of him, his greying locks of hair dangling in the fire. She's unable to continue with her crossword, her eyes are so focused on Sirius and the hearth. It's as though she thinks that if she stares long enough and hard enough, she will be able to see what Sirius is seeing, and hear the conversation.

It is just a few short minutes later when he yanks his head from the grate, the edge of his face blackened with soot.

"Shit!"

"What?" she asks, alarmed, throwing her crossword book to one side.

"I didn't get to tell him about the spell - someone was coming!"

"What _spell_?"

"For the first task - he's up against a bloody dragon! What is Dumbledore _thinking_? Letting him do this..."

"He'll be all right," she says, dropping down to the floor and shuffling over to him on her knees. He looks up at her, his eyes disbelieving.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

They are silent for a short while, and Sirius' frustrated, heavy breaths settle down.

"Why don't you go and watch the task?" she says at last. "You'll see for yourself how well he does."

He looks at her sceptically. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Well you can go in your animagus form...no one else will know it's you. He does really well you know..."

"Really?"

"Really."

She thinks he'll feel better if he sees Harry fly, if he sees him handle himself well in a competition meant for _fully grown_ wizards.

Perhaps seeing him fly will take his mind off of what's coming for all of them.

* * *

><p>It's not long before he's packing his rucksack again - just three days after the talk in the fireplace. He's given Hermione some notice this time, and so she's been able to prepare at least a month's worth of food for him to take with him. The sound of the various foil wrapped packages dropping into the deep canvas pit of his bag reminds her of the sound of the rain, lashing against the tent on those long winter nights when she and Harry would barely speak, Ron's absence ensuring that all conversation was forced and difficult.<p>

She shakes the memory from her head as he slings the bag onto his shoulder.

"How long till I see you?" he asks quietly, his eyes focused on the floor. He looks up at her when her answer doesn't come immediately.

"I...I don't know," she says.

"You don't know?"

"Well, I mean, summer at the latest."

"_Summer_? That's ages away!"

"Well maybe I'll come and find you," she tells him, fiddling with the collar of his robes.

"You'd better."

She smiles, allows him to kiss her, and watches as he disappears with Buckbeak into the night.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Hello! It's been a while (well, about five days) but we have a new chapter! Thanks to those who reviewed the last one, and I hope you enjoy this one too. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She stumbles, but regains her footing quickly. He turns his dark furry head to look at her, yellow eyes surveying her, before he continues to climb over the jagged rocks of the mountain. They arrive at his cave soon after, and there is a light sheen of sweat clinging to Hermione's skin, underneath her coat. He transforms, and she gasps.<p>

He is emaciated. The food she had packed for him clearly ran out a long time ago, and he hasn't bothered to get in touch to ask for more. His robes hang loose off of his body, his high cheek bones jutting out, his eyes sunken in his face.

She throws the heavy canvas bag off of her shoulder, onto the ground at his feet, and he sinks to the floor, cross legged, in one smooth motion. He picks through the items - there are some chicken drumsticks, flasks of pumpkin juice, loaves of bread, blocks of cheese and a few last minute things she had grabbed from her fridge in a panic.

"Pickle?" he asks, holding the jar up, eyebrow raised.

"To go with the cheese," she says, trying to remain dignified.

"Oh yeah, 'cause that was my biggest worry, not having any pickle for my cheese sandwiches..." he grins, and tears off a chunk of bread, chewing on it hungrily.

Hermione conjures a chair and sits down. She raises her wand, offering to do the same for Sirius, but he shakes his head. Evidently he has gotten used to his cave, and has no need of comfy chairs when he has a perfectly good stone floor to sit on.

Buckbeak coughs in the corner, and a small pile of animal bones splats onto the floor. Hermione grimaces and looks away.

Sirius seems unperturbed by the display, and is now spreading the mocked pickle onto his bread, taking a large bite out of it before he's even replaced the lid on the jar.

She watches him eat until he can't take another bite. He leans against the wall of the cave, hands resting on his stomach, and his eyes meet hers.

"He got the highest marks," he says eventually. "Used his _Firebolt_." There is a ghost of a grin about his face, a hint of pride.

"I know," she says. "Stayed up for three nights solid to get the summoning charm just right."

"So _that's_ why you looked a bit of a state..." he says, pieces falling together.

"Oh _thanks_," she retorts hotly, and he bares his teeth in a grin.

"Come home for Christmas." Her voice is so quiet that he could have pretended not to hear it. "Please."

It is a while before he answers. "I have to stay here and keep an eye on Harry."

"He's fine."

He looks at her, his eyes not quite trusting her. Their definitions of fine are somewhat different. Hermione's mostly deals with the fact that Harry is alive. Sirius, she has gathered, will only say things are _fine_ for Harry when Voldemort's gone for good, when he's not taking part in any school tournaments, and when, though Hermione finds the idea to be quite laughable, Harry has a _quiet_ school year.

"He's going to go to the Yule Ball, he's going to ignore his date for most of it because he's an idiot, and he's going to get a knitted jumper from Mrs Weasley. _Terrifying_, isn't it?"

"The jumper?"

Hermione shoots him a dark look.

"Fine," he says. "I'll come home."

"Now?"

He shakes his head. "When the holidays start."

It's about as good a compromise as she's going to get, and so she changes the subject, provides the answers to a few clues from various crosswords that he's been stuck on, and eventually returns home without him.

She feels as though she is drowning in the thick silence, and so she turns on the radio, not remotely interested in the most effective brand of _Doxycide_ on the market, but the voice fills the kitchen as she makes a cup of tea, and it almost feels like she has company.

* * *

><p>"How is he?" Remus asks heavily, collapsing into the armchair by the fire.<p>

"Fine," she says, and hands him a glass of Firewhiskey.

The light of the fire illuminates the scars on his face, thin white lines criss-crossing over the skin. She's sure he's got more since she last saw him.

"And Harry?"

"Fine," she says again, and Remus nods, taking the hint.

She doesn't want to talk about Sirius and Harry. Her life revolves around them, even more so since Sirius escaped. His only concern is Harry, and he's trying to fit twelve years of missed godfathering into _one _year, and so Hermione is stuck, trying to keep him from doing something stupid, and reluctantly, ensuring that Harry _does_ do something stupid...like run off to the Department of Mysteries...

She blinks and takes a sip of her own glass of whiskey. Remus is watching her quietly, his sharp eyes noticing every detail. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"How's work?" he asks at last, and for once she tells him every detail she can (without straying into the mundane) just as an excuse to talk about something simple.

"He's coming home for Christmas," she says finally. "You could come and have Christmas with us if you like."

Lupin smiles softly and shakes his head. "Timing's not right."

She glances up at the lunar calendar then looks at him sympathetically. "Well, at new year then, come over and have a drink."

"Perhaps," he says, stretching his legs out in front of him, "It depends on how quickly I recover."

She nods, and leaves the subject alone.

* * *

><p>It is the first night of the Christmas holidays, and she has a good mind to go and fetch him herself if he doesn't show up soon.<p>

It is only a few minutes later when she hears the soft, rhythmic beating of wings, the slight tumble that announces a Buckbeak landing, and the rapping of knuckles on the kitchen door. As soon as she opens it, he is inside, his teeth chattering, arms wrapped around his middle. Buckbeak is pawing at the thick blanket of snow spread over the little garden, and she inclines her head towards him. He returns the gesture, and Hermione focuses her attention on Sirius.

"F-freezing," he stammers.

"Go and have a bath," she says, frowning at the wet coat clinging to his body. "I'll make some dinner."

He nods and obeys, squelching up the stairs, leaving a thin trail of snow slush behind him. Buckbeak approaches the back door and sticks his head into the kitchen. He's too big to get inside the house, and Hermione can't bear to leave him out in the snow.

Like the fool that she is, she conjures a large shed with a wave of her wand, slips her shoes on and trudges out to the end of the garden, pulling open the wide doors and allowing Buckbeak to go inside. It's still chilly in the shed, and so she creates a few of her trademark jar flames, dotting them around the shed in the hope that it provides some warmth for the poor creature.

She's become soft in the last few years, and the beady yellow stare of Buckbeak, half derisive amusement, half grateful, shows her that he's very aware of this fact, and it is with a small grin that she summons a raw chicken from the fridge in the kitchen, and allows him to dig in.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **It's been a while! But I have been busy - plenty of oneshots up of late and don't mind me while I give them a quick plug - _Flying By_ featuring Harry and Teddy Lupin, which is quite nice and cheerful, _Still She Screams_, less cheerful, but a mild Dramione and, finally, for any whovians among you, _Alive_, which is a follow up from Saturday's episode. Now I've got the shameless self advertisement out of the way, all that remains is for me to thank those of you who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one too. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>Their new year's celebrations aren't all that celebratory, truth be told. She's not sure when socialising was substituted for sitting quietly together with a bottle of Firewhiskey, but it has become the reality. They've finished two thirds of the bottle between them, yet none of them are showing the remotest signs of being tipsy, let alone drunk.<p>

If James were here the situation would be rather different.

Hermione sighs, and readjusts her position against Sirius' side. Once she's comfortable again, his hand finds an appropriate place to rest, and she wonders why on earth she thought it might be a good idea to celebrate the passing of time. Tomorrow will be no different from today, except that it's one day closer to the inevitable - but so is every day, and that's something that she kids herself into thinking she can deal with.

"Not long now," Remus says quietly, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "What's the betting we miss it completely?"

"Probably," Hermione says, and a flick of her wand brings the radio to life, the softly spoken wizard informing them that there are just five minutes left of the year, and that there is no better way to pass those five minutes than with Angelica Hart's _Jellylegs Jig._

The music starts up, fast paced and a little jazzy, then Angelica's voice follows, slightly shrill and distorted by the old wireless speaker.

"Get rid of it," Sirius says with a grimace, and Hermione flicks her wand again. The silence returns.

Midnight comes, and they raise their glasses, distant fireworks lighting the lounge with random bursts of colour, flashing through the windows. Remus is extra sensitive to the bangs and whistles, and so Hermione casts a charm, blocking out the noise.

The silence bears down upon them, and while it's not uncomfortable, it's not enjoyable either. The three of them were once friends, friends who loved spending time together, friends who could throw the best parties the Gryffindor common room had ever seen.

"What happened to us?" Remus asks with a sigh.

"Voldemort," Hermione responds in a whisper.

Sirius tenses next to her, and eventually, they speak of James and Lily. The two of them had held the entire group together, and remembering them almost brings that back.

* * *

><p>Sirius is gone again much too soon, with a bag stuffed full of fleecy blankets, jumpers and food. Hermione settles into her old routine, work, sleep, work, sleep, work sleep, with a weekend shoved in occasionally for good measure. Eventually the second task comes, and goes, with a little coverage in the <em>Daily Prophet<em>. There is a picture of her standing with Viktor, soaking wet and _young_. It hurts to see herself so unaware, and so she folds the newspaper over and abandons it on the kitchen table, only to shove it into the bin the following morning.

Remus has taken to visiting her quite regularly, partly because he worries for her (as he always will) and partly because he himself is just as lonely as she is.

Initially it's an evening every other week, and they wade through Firewhiskey and teenage recollections, trying to feel alive. Soon it becomes a weekly habit, until it turns into Sunday dinner at Hermione's place, every weekend, bar those where the full moon inconveniently falls.

"Do you remember," he says, cutting into a slice of beef, "when James ate that entire treacle tart at Halloween?"

Hermione snorted. "How could I forget?"

"He actually asked me and Sirius later, if we thought Lily was _impressed._"

Hermione bursts into laughter and sets her cutlery down. "Impressed?" she wheezes, "You have to be joking! She thought it was disgusting!"

"Well _I_ knew that," Remus says, his lips curving at the edges, "But you know James. He always had very warped ideas about what girls _liked_."

"You know, the only thing that stopped me from calling him 'Harry' was that silly thing he used to do with his hair...it's a good job too, or that would have raised some awkward questions."

Remus' smile broadens. It's almost like therapy, talking about them openly. They have spent over thirteen years trying to ignore the fact that James and Lily were gone, and their friendship has suffered because of it.

It's getting back on track now, though, and Hermione's glad, because she knows she won't be alone when _that day_ comes. She knows he will be there every second, with a bottle of whiskey and a shoulder to cry on.

* * *

><p>"We could just go home you know," Hermione says, shivering on her stool, her sleeves pulled down over her hands to keep away the frostbite.<p>

"And leave Buckbeak? Not likely."

Remus shoots Hermione an amused look, and she scoots closer to the fire that Sirius is busy constructing 'the muggle way'. He seems to think it impressive, that he can create fire without a wand, and Hermione is tempted to tell him that muggles have been doing it for thousands of years. She would feel mean, however, extinguishing the small joy he has managed to find in his caveman life.

"How's Harry doing?" Remus asks him, his voice cracking with the chill.

"All right - he's tied first with the Diggory boy, Cedric, I think?" he turns to face Hermione, a questioning look on his face, and she nods in response, though she's not sure he can distinguish it amongst her shivering.

The mention of Cedric sends a chill through her that has nothing to do with the bitter wind whipping its way through the mountains.

"You know I think he could actually win this," Sirius continues enthusiastically. "They're announcing the third task towards the end of May, so he'll know in advance what it is."

"It's a maze," Hermione chatters. "There are enchantments and things that you have to break through, and I think a boggart and a sphinx as well, if I remember right. The cup's at the centre."

Sirius raises an eyebrow.

"You can't tell, obviously. But it'll stop you worrying, it's right up his street."

"Sphinxes are dangerous," Sirius reasons, and Hermione finds this quite laughable from a convicted murderer who has dared to break into Hogwarts grounds more times than she can count. "And what kind of enchantments?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, "He managed to break through all the enchantments protecting the Philosopher's Stone in his first year. This is right up his street."

"You told me at the beginning of the year -"

"Harry is going to be fine."

"What did you tell him?" Remus asks, warming his hands in front of the now roaring fire.

Before Hermione can say a single word, Sirius jumps in.

"Voldemort's coming back."

She hits him on the shoulder, hard, and then sees Remus' expression. His face is pale, despite the glow of the flames, his mouth ajar.

"What?" he chokes out.

Hermione gives Sirius a dark look, and he shifts uncomfortably on the floor.

"He was going to find out eventually."

"Yes," Hermione hisses, "When it _happens!_"

After a few seconds that feel like a lifetime, Remus' shock subsides.

"It was going to happen sooner or later," he sighs. "Harry will be fine, you say? Voldemort doesn't -"

"When I..._left_," she says, "Harry was alive and well."

Remus nods, and Sirius fiddles with the rocks around the fire, apparently quite aware that he's in deep trouble. Hermione, however, is far too preoccupied with the fact that Cedric's death is looming like a Dementor in the mist.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. Things are starting to kick off a little more now, so I hope you enjoy this chapter. Quick shameless plug - new oneshot posted today, _Women_, which is set after _Wait for the Song to Stop_ and is part of that weird little universe that Tom and Hermione inhabit when I get bored. Anyway, enjoy this, and let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>McGonagall's eyes widen when she steps out from the spiral staircase and sees her.<p>

"Miss Granger -" apparently she doesn't know how to follow that up, and so Hermione fills the silence.

"Hello Professor," she says, offering a vague smile.

"What are you doing here? Isn't it dangerous? You might see yourself!"

"I'm in Charms," Hermione tells her. "And I wanted to talk to Dumbledore. Is he free?"

"Yes," McGonagall says, stepping back. "Go on up," she gestures towards the stone gargoyle, which is still shifted to one side after McGonagall's exit from the Headmaster's office.

Hermione gives her one last smile and walks up the staircase, trying to ignore the prickling feeling of McGonagall watching her disappear up into the tower.

He's frowning at a bowl of wine gums when she reaches his office, and his long fingers pluck a purple one from under the surface.

Apparently he's not so fond of the orange ones.

"Hermione," he says, smiling fondly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She's left with no option but to get straight to the point.

"It's time to intervene," she says, waiting for the lecture.

It doesn't come.

"I know you want to stop what's coming, but you _can't_ Hermione. He's going to find a way back, and this is...well, this is just how it was before. And after Peter's escape last summer I don't doubt that Lord Voldemort's return will be sooner rather than later."

"I know I can't stop _that_," she says, mildly offended that he thought she was stupid enough to try. "But you need to call off the tournament."

"There's only one more task to go, it will be over soon," he sighs.

"How could you even _begin_ to think it was a good idea to take part? To _host it_? You _know_ how dangerous this tournament is, you _know_."

"Every precaution has been taken -"

"You haven't taken _enough_!" Hermione's voice has risen, she's shouting at him, but she doesn't care. He doesn't look like he cares too much either.

"We can't call it off now, not even after Barty Crouch. It's -"

Hermione stands up, her chair shooting back and crashing into a spindly legged table. "One of your students is going to die," she's not shouting now. Her voice is low and dangerous, and every syllable is designed to hit him like a bullet.

He closes his eyes, and she thinks, just for a moment, he's going to ask her what needs to be done to prevent it.

"Is it Harry?"

Hermione shakes her head.

"I can't call the tournament off."

"But you would if it had been Harry?" She's disgusted with him. He only wants to make sure his special tool is safe. Safe so he can leave him with the world upon his shoulders and not enough information to see that he can look after it.

"You know the laws."

"To hell with the laws! This is the life of an innocent boy we're talking about!"

Dumbledore sighs.

"I guess you never cared too much if someone was innocent or not."

It's a low blow, and she's aware that she's perhaps played it one too many times in the past, but it doesn't stop her from hitting him with it again.

He was more than happy to protect Malfoy, the cowardly little runt, but he won't protect one of his own students, one of his _good_ students from certain death.

Perhaps he only takes on the battles he knows he can win.

Perhaps he's as cowardly and useless and Voldemort wants the world to think.

"I'm not going to relent on the matter. If that's all you came here for -"

"_Cedric Diggory_. Hogwarts Champion. He's going to die during the third task if you don't stop this _now_."

His eyelids drop, and a solitary tear leaks out from the corner of his eye. There is something about them that's less bright, and she doesn't know whether it's been a gradual change during the last thirteen years, or whether the stress of this year, the stress of knowing what's coming for them all is to blame.

"Don't try and make this more difficult for me than it already is," he says quietly.

"It's not _difficult_. It's very very easy - cancel the tournament!"

"Hermione -"

"Barty Crouch is already _dead_, do _not_ let Cedric go the same way."

His blue eyes met her brown ones, and she can tell she is fighting a losing battle.

"_Fine_. But I hope your conscience can handle it. I hope you're able to deal with the knowledge that you stepped aside - you let a seventeen year old boy walk straight into his death."

She turns on her heel and hauls open the office door. It smashes against the wall, the portrait frames shaking with the force, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care because _he doesn't care._.

"Hermione, don't make the mistake of thinking that I'm fine with this," his voice is so quiet that she's surprised she can hear it above the commotion she's caused and the outrage of the portrait inhabitants.

"Don't you _dare_ go to his funeral and pretend you care," she hisses. "Don't _insult him_ like that."

"It's for the greater good," he says softly, eyes dropping down to look at the table. "You have been given an opportunity that so many of us wish for, but the truth of the matter is, you can't do a single thing to prevent that which you most wish you could change. Every death, no matter whose it is, is a temporal milestone. You can't change something like that, not without devastating consequences."

"To hell with the consequences," she whispers. "Good people do what's right, regardless of the consequences."

"I never said I was a good person, Hermione. You came to that conclusion all on your own."

She feels like she's just been pushed down the stairs. She can barely breathe and her legs are refusing to work. She stares at him a little longer, her eyes filling with tears. All these years, all this time she's followed his instructions, reluctantly, yes, bitterly, of course, but always, _always_, because she believed that he was a good man who was doing his best to help save the world.

Today she realises that he's just a man who's happy to let a seventeen year old boy hurtle head first into his own murder.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **Here we are again! Another chapter. Thanks to those who reviewed the last one, and thanks also to those who reviewed _Women. _I'll be posting the final part of that series tonight, and it's called _Not On Three_. So, shameless plug over, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mum and Dad,<em>

_Hope you're well - all the preparations for the third task are going well. My friends have been helping me practice even though they've all got their exams. I feel quite lucky that I'm in the tournament to be honest, they're all getting so stressed out about Potions and Transfiguration, and all I have to worry about is a maze on the quidditch pitch._

_Speaking of which, Dad, do you know how long it will take for the pitch to get back to normal? We _will_ be able to have the cup next year, won't we? I'm not sure I could face my final year without any quidditch, though maybe it'd be a good thing, I suppose I need to concentrate on my NEWTs after all. But even so, the _quidditch pitch_. I know Oliver Wood, the old Gryffindor captain would have had a fit if he could see the place now. Someone told me he was playing for Puddlemere now, is that right? Haven't seen anything in Quidditch Weekly but figure he might just be on the reserves. _

_Mum, as for your final question, yes, you _will_ get to meet Cho when you come to see the tournament. She's really lovely and I'm sure you'll like her a lot. She's a Ravenclaw too, so it's about as good as it gets. She told me to say hello in my next letter, and tell you that she can't wait to meet you at the task. _

_Lots of love,_

_Cedric._

She leans back in her chair and examines her work, picking up the copies of the intercepted letters she has collected and checking her imitation handwriting against Cedric's genuine script. It's not a bad match. The W's are a little off - Cedric's manage to be sharp and curled at the same time, while Hermione can only manage to get them sharp with the occasional flick at the end to infer some sort of elegance to the letters. She hopes he hasn't replied, not yet, because she's going to have to make up a whole new letter and she simply doesn't have the time to do such a thing.

There is also the issue of sneaking it into Cedric's dormitory. She wonders if Dobby will be able to do it for her, but he's not under her command, she can't summon him and she can't go to Dumbledore and ask _him_ to do it. He'd never let her do such a thing - he'd consider it to be _interfering_.

But then again, maybe his guilt over Cedric would allow Hermione to grant his parents this one small gift, this last declaration of love and care from beyond this world. Perhaps he will relent, just so his parents can receive the letter and be reminded of their son not as a victim of Voldemort, but as the young, quidditch loving, exam dodging, happy teenager he was.

She is half tempted to ask Sirius to do it. He can sneak into the grounds through the Forbidden Forest or the Shrieking Shack and gain entry to the castle quite easily. After Barty Crouch's death however, security is bound to have increased, and if he gets caught...

No, she'll just have to think of another way.

* * *

><p>"Are you coming to watch the task?" Sirius asks, before biting into a large chicken leg and tearing a chunk of flesh off with his teeth.<p>

Hermione shakes her head.

"Then why are you here?"

Hermione ignores him, and coaxes the squashy faced ginger cat towards her, clicking her fingers softly, crouched low so she can make eye contact with him.

"Come on Crookshanks, you know it's me..." she says quietly, looking imploringly into the cat's amber eyes.

"What are you -"

"Shush!"

She can tell that Sirius has rolled his eyes at her back, but when she hears the sound of chewing again, she knows he's more preoccupied with his food than her attempts at reconciliation with her old cat.

Crookshanks approaches her warily, and when he's close enough, Hermione reaches out a hand to scratch him behind the ears. He closes his eyes contentedly, purring softly, and Hermione kneels down in front of him, pulling him closer so she can make a big fuss of him. Once he's had enough, he winds his way out of her grip and looks at her, evidently realising she has a job for him to do.

"Take this to the Hufflepuff sixth year boys' dormitory," she whispers, handing him the scroll which he clamps gently in his mouth. "Hide it, somewhere he won't find it, not today at least, but don't hide it _too_ well. It needs to be found eventually, all right?"

Crookshanks blinks once at her, seemingly in understanding, and slinks out of the cave, his fluffy ginger form disappearing down the rocky mountainside.

"What was that all about?" Sirius asks, his dark eyebrows knitted together in a frown. "What are you getting him to do?"

"Nothing," Hermione says.

Sirius continues to look at her, quite rightly not believing the rather lame lie.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she sighs. "I promise."

"Is it about the task?"

"I'll tell you _tomorrow_," her voice has turned harsh. She does not want to think about the Triwizard Tournament for a single second more. It has been weighing on her mind for the past year, getting heavier and heavier as they drew closer to the date that would eventually be engraved on a seventeen year old boy's headstone.

"Is it about Harry?"

"No."

He believes her this time, and satisfied that he needn't worry about the one thing he cares most for in the world, he returns to his food, chewing slowly and watching her thoughtfully.

"I won't tell anyone," he says at last. "You know I won't."

"You will," she sighs.

"You don't know that."

"I did."

"Who did you tell?" he asks, setting his food aside. He is very much aware how big a deal it is for her to tell someone something of this magnitude. Yes, she's already told him that Voldemort will return (though he is blissfully unaware that it will be tonight) and he's let Remus in on the secret too, but that was always inevitable. Anyone who had two braincells to rub together could have foreseen such things.

Cedric, however...no. No one could have foreseen that. Sirius is much rasher than she is, and he will not be content to sit and hate Dumbledore quietly, he will run into Hogwarts, grab Amos Diggory by the collar and tell him that on no account is he to let his son enter that maze.

She wishes she were that brave, but she fears the repercussions too much. If Dumbledore had allowed it, she wouldn't have felt an ounce of worry about doing such a thing, because he's much older, and much cleverer than she is, and it's easy to blame him if things go wrong.

It's much harder to appreciate him ensuring that things go according to plan. Especially when the price of that plan is the life of an innocent boy.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Well, I won't deny that I'm stupidly excited. I've never had a story that's reached the twenty chapter mark, and there are still a fair few more to go. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one, let me know what you think!

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

><p>He won't look at her.<p>

He blames her.

"Dumbledore's reforming the Order," he tells Remus, as they sit in his cramped, rather shabby apartment. "He says we have to act quickly, get people together, we need to alert the old crowd, but you know I can't just show up on people's doorsteps."

Remus smiles wryly. "I'm afraid I won't be much more welcome than you."

"But the _old crowd_, they know you, they _trust_ you."

"Well I can certainly try," Remus agrees, standing up and moving over to the window, looking out over the industrial town that surrounds his tower block. "We should inform Arabella, first thing tomorrow, no sense in waking her now. She still lives in Little Whinging?"

"I assume so. I don't think she'd have moved away until Harry was of age...she's too well placed."

Remus looks at Hermione. "Any pointers?" he asks. "Would make our job easier."

"I don't think so," Sirius says, before she can even get a single word out. "It seems that she likes to keep things to herself, if they ensure Harry's safety."

Hermione stands up, and opens her mouth to speak but it is Remus' voice she hears, not her own.

"Sirius don't be _ridiculous_," he growls. "Harry is _fine_."

"The Diggory boy isn't though," Sirius retorts darkly.

"You think I didn't _try_?" Hermione chokes, tears falling thick and fast down her face. "You think I didn't go to Dumbledore and tell him to call off the tournament? You think I didn't tell him that Cedric was going to _die_ because of that tournament?"

"Dumbledore isn't the only person in the universe who can stop things," Sirius stands too, knocking his chair aside with the speed of it. "You could have done something yourself!"

"Yes! I could have acted rashly like you would have, and who _knows_ what the consequences would have been? Maybe _Harry_ would have died tonight instead! And you still would have blamed me!"

"Maybe _nobody _would have died!"

"The world isn't that _fair_!" she yells at him. Remus is watching them as though they are a tennis match, his eyes flicking from one to the other. "You know that as well as I do!"

"Enough!" Remus' voice rings out cold, and Sirius stops, his angry response dying in his throat. "Sirius you are being a _fool_. You know the laws. She couldn't have done anything, not safely, not knowing it wouldn't cause _more_ damage. As it is, Harry escaped Voldemort and did the best thing he could have done - he told _Dumbledore_. If Voldemort had found a way back without using him, if the tournament had been cancelled and he had been forced to make other plans, Dumbledore wouldn't know of his return. He wouldn't be able to prepare for it."

Sirius sinks back onto his chair, shooting a poisonous look towards Remus, and stubbornly ignoring Hermione, whose cheeks are still damp, though the tears have stopped coming.

"Peter _knows_ by now where Hermione's from. He saw her in the Shrieking Shack. If the tournament had suddenly been called off and Voldemort's plans thwarted do you think she would be safe? Voldemort would make it his top priority, even higher than getting to Harry, to find her, get all the information out of her he can, and _kill_ her."

The blood in her veins runs cold. She hasn't considered that. Not even for a second. Yes, she is aware that Peter knows, but part of her almost expects him to feel enough remorse over Lily and James that he will keep her secret to himself. She's a fool, she knows that, and if she'd considered the matter properly, she would have been able to provide a hundred reasons as to why he would _not_ keep the information to himself, but surely she would have had a knock at the door by now? An attempted kidnap? He's been reunited with his old master for over a year...but perhaps Voldemort is biding his time...

Sirius' head is resting in his hands, while Remus looks on severely. He's made Sirius feel suitably ashamed of himself, and now he won't look at either of them. Hermione takes her seat again, her trembling fingers gripping the armrests in an attempt to hide her shakiness from Sirius. She does not want him to know he has upset her, though the tear tracks on her cheeks don't help her much in this aspect.

"Get in touch with Mundungus Fletcher," she says quietly. "Arabella Figg, obviously. I'll speak to Kingsley, and he can get Nymphadora Tonks on side too. No doubt Dumbledore will be in touch with Elphias Doge and Dedalus Diggle...and Arthur Weasley will be able to get some of the Ministry workers I'm sure. He's been there long enough to know where people's loyalties lie."

"Don't say any more than you should," Remus says, shooting Sirius a dark look. "You have _nothing_ to feel guilty about, so don't try and compensate now."

"Just get in touch with Arabella and Mundungus," she says, fighting to keep her voice even.

Sirius has still not looked up.

"What were you doing earlier?" he asks, his voice muffled by his hands.

"It doesn't matter."

"You promised you'd tell me."

"Well maybe I don't want to now," she says, standing up and pulling her jacket on.

"I'm _sorry_," he says, also getting to his feet, trying to meet her eye, but she won't have it, she's much too focused on fastening her buttons.

"Hermione," Remus says quietly. "Let's not fall apart. Not now."

"No," she says resolutely. "I'm going. If I stay much longer he'll no doubt blame me for James and Lily's deaths too."

"I would _never_ - I blame _myself_ for that!"

"I knew all along that Peter was a traitor," she says quietly. "You needn't blame yourself."

He takes a step back from her, and looks as though he is using every ounce of willpower to keep calm. She's never told him this - has assumed that he's always known, ever since she told him where she was from, but apparently he's pushed it from her mind, convinced himself that she _can't_ have known, despite the fact that her younger self heard the whole sorry tale in the Shrieking Shack just last year.

Part of her wants to goad him into shouting at her, telling her it's all her fault, that none of this would have happened if she'd just lived up to the qualities of Gryffindor house and been _brave_.

He doesn't though.

"What were you doing this morning?" he asks, his voice kept under shaky control.

She knows how much it must have cost him, to keep his head, to not react.

"I gave Crookshanks a letter to plant in Cedric's room. A response to his parents' last letter. I've been intercepting his mail for a while now."

Sirius frowns. "What?"

"I forged a letter," she says softly. "Telling his parents that he can't wait to see them, that he's anxious for the quidditch season next year, and that he loves them."

Sirius sighs heavily and looks down at his feet.

She can feels Remus' eyes on her as she leaves the room.

As she descends the stairs, she knows what tonight means.

It means it's the beginning of the end.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **Thanks to the folks who reviewed the last chapter, and also thanks to those who reviewed _Not On Three_. I hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think!

* * *

><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>He has a smart mews house in Knightsbridge. The outside is painted a pale blue, and if she stands back, on the other side of the quiet cobbled street and looks at the row of flat fronted, cheerfully painted houses, she can almost kid herself that it's a seaside town she's in, <em>not<em> the centre of London.

He opens the door a short while after she has knocked, takes one look at her and steps aside, allowing her to enter.

"I've been expecting you," he says, his deep slow voice sending a surge of calm through Hermione. "Things have been getting bad for a while."

Kingsley takes her jacket from her and places it on a hook, before gesturing her towards the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asks.

"Please."

She sits down at the round pine table and looks around. The place is spotless, and the only sounds are that of Kingsley boiling the kettle and taking mugs out of the cupboard.

"Kingsley -"

"I have a feeling I'm going to need some tea when you tell me why you're here," he says, cutting across her, and she falls silent. She'd _like_ to get it over and done with quite quickly. It's not exactly her favourite past time, telling people that Lord Voldemort has returned and she'd quite like them to put their lives on the line, but someone's got to do it.

Eventually he places a small mug of scorching hot tea in front of her and takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. He sips his own cautiously, deems it too hot for drinking, and sets it down.

"Go on then," he says, inclining his head towards her.

"Voldemort's back."

Kingsley's eyes widen for the briefest of moment, but he regains his composure quickly, his brow furrowing in concern.

"When did it happen?"

"Last night," she says. "Dumbledore's reforming the Order of the Phoenix. And..." she smiles wryly at this point, "I know you'd like to join."

Kingsley offers her the faintest of smiles in return. "I see. When's the first meeting?"

"Saturday evening," she tells him. "Dumbledore will be in touch."

He nods, and takes a sip of his tea. Hermione mirrors his actions, the hot liquid scalding her tongue a little, but she doesn't show any sign of pain. It's not an easy conversation, and she doesn't want to be the one cornered into talking.

"What are the initial plans? Do we know?" he asks.

"Watching Harry over the summer," she says, and he nods, as though he expected this. "There are a few other things too, but Dumbledore will explain on Saturday."

"I can probably recruit a few of the aurors," he says slowly. "Can't have enough aurors on our side."

"D'you know Tonks?" she asks. "Nymphadora?"

Kingsley frowns. "The Metamorphmagus girl?"

"Yes," Hermione says, "That's her."

"Yes," he replies slowly, sitting back in his chair, his eyebrows still knitted together as though considering her. "I believe Mad-Eye trained her, didn't he?"

"I think so, yes."

"She's on side then?"

Hermione nods. "You have to be cautious though. Fudge won't accept Voldemort's back and he's going to make it difficult for anyone who openly sides with Dumbledore."

"I can imagine," Kingsley says grimly. "Anyone else you think, or rather, _know_ is willing to join?"

She shakes her head. "I'm only fifteen now," she tells him. "We weren't allowed in on the meetings, or to know too much."

"Naturally," he says. "Is Black going to be there, on Saturday?"

She pauses. She doesn't know. She hasn't spoken to him since last night, but it's _his_ house, so he _must_ show up. Mustn't he?

"I suppose so."

* * *

><p>Dumbledore hasn't cast the Fidelius Charm yet, but she can see it, despite all the protective enchantments placed upon it by Sirius' father. It seems that a secret keeper is a secret keeper, no matter who's cast the charm that's hiding the building from everyone else.<p>

"I should go in first," Sirius says, and Dumbledore nods. He disappears through the front door, and it closes behind him with a bang.

"Remus told me of your...argument. I have spoken to Sirius."

The skin on Hermione's arms prickles. She doesn't want him defending her actions to Sirius, not when he was the one who ensured Cedric's death. She doesn't say anything in response.

"You are, of course, still angry with me, and I quite understand."

Hermione continues to stare at the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"We cannot afford for you to become a threat to Lord Voldemort. He will stop at nothing to seize you."

She wishes Sirius would hurry up and return.

"When collecting his belongings, the house elves found a letter addressed to Cedric's parents."

"Could they tell it wasn't his writing?" she asks, her eyes fixed on the front door.

"No. But I knew for a fact that Cedric had had no time to compose that letter, what with all the excitement in the build up to -"

"His death."

Dumbledore sighs. "It was very kind of you," he says at last. "I believe it lessened their pain somewhat."

She bites back the retort that there would be no pain at all, if he'd only been brave enough to cancel the final task. Reminding Dumbledore of Cedric's death at every opportunity will not bring him back.

"When we fear for the safety of the people we love," Dumbledore continues, determined to fill the stony silence. "We often say things we do not mean. We often place blame where it ought not to be placed. Sirius is guilty of this very _human_ sin, and I know he has regretted his words since the moment they spilled from his careless mouth. You mustn't be too hard on him."

"I think _I'll_ decide how hard to be on him," Hermione replies acidly. "It is, after all, the only thing I _can _decide in my own life."

"You love him, and times are getting more dangerous. Don't hold a grudge you know you'll regret."

Hermione turns to look at him at last, her mouth hanging open. Does Dumbledore _know_? Has he read her mind?

She has no time to think it through further, because the front door of number twelve has banged shut again and Sirius is strolling towards them, a grin on his face, his wand twirling in his hands.

"I thought she might have snapped it in two," he says, holding it up so they can see. "But apparently murdering thirteen people made her proud of me."

Dumbledore chuckles lightly, but Hermione says nothing. Sirius eyes her cautiously and then turns his attention on Dumbledore again.

"I've removed all the enchantments, I think. Can you see it now?" he asks, looking over his shoulder to where the house stands.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore says. "I can see it."

"I've left the Unplottable Charm on it, but everything else is gone...and I've triple checked for hexes and jinxes. It's a good job you didn't go in with me," he looks at Hermione.

"Why?"

"Muggleborns get flattened."

"Flattened?"

He nods grimly. "By a piano, no less. My mother always did have a warped sense of humour."

As angry as she is with Dumbledore, she's rather relieved when he offers to do one last check of the building, to avoid any other mishaps, piano based or not.

Sirius takes the opportunity to talk to her.

"About last night..."

"Forget it."

"I'm _sorry_."

"I know."

He moves to take her hand, and she lets him.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **Thanks to those who took the time to review the last chapter, I do massively appreciate it when you make the effort. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>It is the first meeting.<p>

Sirius is holding her hand under the kitchen table, while people take their seats, the scraping of wood on tile echoing around the room. Once everybody is comfortable, Dumbledore clears his throat quietly, and the mutterings and chatter dissipate quickly.

Snape is eyeing her curiously, and she looks down at the table. It's the first time she's seen him for years. It was easy to separate him from the man who killed Dumbledore, when they were at school, but now, as she looks at him, she wants to curse him. She wants to scream in his face.

_Traitor._

Molly Weasley is also looking at her, soft eyes curious, almost on the brink of figuring it out.

"I think first, it is important that we are all introduced," Dumbledore says. So typical of him, delaying the real business in favour of pleasantries. She wonders how she's supposed to explain herself, but she gets a twinkly blue look flashed in her direction and knows she won't have to worry.

"Now some of you _may_ have noticed, we have a convicted murderer sitting at our table."

Sirius holds in a smirk, and the few Order members who haven't been notified of his innocence regard him warily. Kingsley sends Hermione a small smile, which she returns, much to the displeasure of Snape.

"All you need to know is that Peter Pettigrew faked his own death, and framed Sirius. Peter Pettigrew betrayed Lily and James Potter -"

Sirius' grip on her hand tightens at this point, and she places her other hand on top of his, brushing her thumb across his skin gently, soothingly.

"- Sirius," Dumbledore continues, "is innocent."

More than a few pairs of eyebrows raise at this, though nobody says anything. None of them dare to disagree with Dumbledore.

"There is another...anomaly at our table tonight, sitting, quite helpfully, on Sirius' right hand side."

So that's it, is it? That's all she is? An _anomaly_?

Thank you _very much_.

"Miss _Hermione Granger_ suffered a rather unfortunate accident as a teenager, and landed herself nearly twenty years in the past."

Molly's hand moves to rest on her heart, her implausible suspicions confirmed.

"Extra care _must_ be taken when discussing her, as her younger self _will_ be staying at Grimmauld Place this summer. I expect all of you realise that you cannot possibly expect her to tell you anything of the future, and, naturally, forbid you to ask her any questions regarding such matters."

Mundungus seems the most disappointed by this, his thick eyebrows contorted into a scowl.

"Pardon me, headmaster," Snape says, in his low, delicate voice. "But would it not be more prudent for Miss _Granger_," he says her name with an air of disgust that makes Sirius straighten his back and glare harder, "to inform us with enough detail to allow us to be prepared? Surely the fight against the Dark Lord is more important than precautions which, in truth, we have no idea are really _necessary_."

For the first time in her life (and the last time, she hopes) she wants to kiss Snape. His objections are not that of a whining girl whose friends are dying, they are that of a cold, detached potions professor and part time spy.

She wonders what he can possibly get out of it. Has he already told Voldemort about her?

No. Peter would have wanted to claim the credit.

Dumbledore's voice rings high above the murmurs of agreement.

"We have no idea that they are _unnecessary_, Severus. The road ahead is long, and dangerous. But we must do what is right, as opposed to what is easy."

_Sanctimonious bastard_.

She can tell several people at the table are thinking similar thoughts, though none of them quite so bitter, nor quite so justified as her own.

When nobody questions him further, he continues, going round the table and naming the guests at Grimmauld Place. It is nothing like the thrilling adventure she, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George had tried to listen in on during their first few weeks, and the next twenty minutes of the meeting is spent getting everybody up to date on the current _situation_.

"There are two main priorities as it stands," he says, and at last Hermione feels like they're reaching an interesting moment. "Firstly, Harry. He needs constant protection now he has returned to Privet Drive for the summer. Arthur Weasley is currently on duty, and Dedalus will be relieving him at midnight." A tiny little wizard in a purple hat waves merrily to indicate himself, and Dumbledore smiles. "A duty rota has been drawn up," a flick of his wand sees that a copy of the rota is laid in front of everybody. "Underneath the rota for Harry's protection, you'll see a _second_ rota."

The attention of everybody in the room is turned up a notch. Protecting Harry was obvious...the second rota is unlabelled.

"There is an object in the Department of Mysteries -"

She shudders at the mere _mention _of that place, and Sirius turns to look at her, frowning slightly.

Snape has also taken note of her body language. One eyebrow arches with interest.

She wishes now more than ever that she had learned Occlumency.

* * *

><p>Sirius paces around the kitchen, pausing only to kick the door frame.<p>

"I can't _stand_ him! How do we even know we can trust him?"

Hermione says nothing, and Molly purses her lips.

"Dumbledore trusts him, Sirius," Arthur says, setting Mad-Eye's invisibility cloak down on the back of a chair. "He wouldn't trust him without reason."

"Dumbledore gave evidence against _me_," Sirius growls. "Dumbledore can be _wrong_."

He has Arthur beaten on this point, and sits down in the chair next to Hermione, waiting defiantly for Arthur to say something. _Anything_.

"Sirius," Hermione says, and her tone ensures that he slumps in his seat, arms folded, sulky, but quiet.

"Why don't I make a pot of tea?" Molly says, getting to her feet and filling the copper kettle with water. Nobody says anything, and she fills the silence by being a little louder than necessary as she bustles around the kitchen. The door creaks open and Remus steps in.

"Have they all gone?" Sirius asks.

Remus nods, and perceptive as ever, (though Hermione's not entirely sure one needs to be all that perceptive to read Sirius at a time like this) gives Sirius an exasperated look.

"He put himself in so much danger when he turned spy for Dumbledore...Slytherins don't do that."

"_Exactly_."

Remus sighs. "You're missing the point. Dumbledore has unshakeable faith in him, he -"

"He must have known, even back then, that Peter was a traitor. Never said a single thing about it, not to Dumbledore, not to the Wizengamot -"

"Voldemort is far _cleverer _than that! He doesn't let his death eaters socialise!"

Sirius stands abruptly, and Hermione looks at him, shaking her head so minutely she doesn't think the others actually notice.

"I'm going to bed."

He slams the kitchen door behind him, and Remus turns to Hermione.

"Talk to him, _please_."

"No."

"Why not?"

Arthur and Molly are watching silently, their eyes darting between Remus and Hermione, anticipating each response.

"I'm going home," she gets up slowly, her chair shrieking unpleasantly against the floor.

"You have to -"

"I don't have to do anything!" her voice has risen to a far higher volume than she intended, but it grants her the desired effect. Remus backs down, almost visibly shrinking on the spot. Molly puts an arm around her, shooting a stern look towards Remus.

"The tea's ready, sweetheart. At least stay and have a cup."

It's been so long since she's been mothered like this, so long since she's had a hug from somebody who just wanted to look after her and make sure she was eating properly.

She stays all night, unloading a lifetime of upset, while Molly listens, hugs, and soothes.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **Is it sad that I'm excited about the new layout of the posting section of the site? I suppose it is, but I'm anxiously wondering whether I'm going to have to agree to the guidelines seven times a day. Exciting stuff! I hope they've fixed it. Gah! Okay, this is boring, sorry, but I was taken by surprise. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, hope you enjoy this one. Let me know what you think! =]

* * *

><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>If she's being perfectly honest, she wants to pull the cloak off and tell him everything's going to be all right.<p>

It's not, but that's besides the point.

The only thing keeping her from actually doing it, apart from the fact that Dumbledore, Moody, and likely a few others would kill her for being so foolish, is the small point that he has no idea who she is. Not really.

She tugs at the collar of her t-shirt, wishing that the weather would let up, just for a few hours. She's sweating like mad, following him around in the blazing midday sun, covered in the thick invisibility cloak. It makes her hot breath float back into her face, her body heat building and building, but with no avenue to escape.

Dumbledore's 'No Magic' orders see that she can't even cast a Cooling Charm on herself, and it is with great relief that Hermione follows Harry through the wooded shortcut that leads to the park. She hides behind a thickset tree, whips the cloak off, enjoying the chill of the shade for a few moments, before throwing it back over herself and going after him, taking great strides in order to catch up.

A twig snaps beneath her feet, so loudly that she freezes out of shock. Harry whips around, his green eyes scanning the area for the source of the noise.

He can't see it. Naturally.

"Who's there?" he demands, and his tone is exactly the same as she remembers it in fifth year - bubbling constantly with fury, on the verge of cracking.

Hermione doesn't move a muscle. He's staring straight at her, and if she makes another sound...

He starts towards her, whipping his head this way and that to check for any sign of movement between the trees.

Her heart is thumping wildly in her chest. If she doesn't move soon, he's going to hit her head on, but if she moves, she's going to make a sound and he'll _know_. He's still striding towards her, and she makes a decision, hopping out of the way but disturbing a discarded cider can.

Harry lunges, one hand closing around her forearm, the other reaching out wildly for a low hanging branch to keep himself from hitting the ground. Once he's regained his balance he fumbles with the cloak, trying to get a grip on it so he can pull it off of her. Hermione, panicking, uses her free arm to try and stop him, but her dexterity and grip are hindered by the thick material. His fingers close around a small section of it and he starts to tug.

"Stop!" she says, her voice carrying as much authority as she can muster.

To her immense surprise, Harry follows orders, though his grip on her arm remains tight. Too tight.

"Harry, you're hurting me, please let go."

"Who are you?" he demands, squinting at the spot where he has guessed her head to be.

"I work for Dumbledore," she says. It's not a lie, after all, but she can't tell him her _name_. "And I'm a friend of Sirius'."

"Sirius?" Harry says excitedly, relinquishing his hold her. "Have you seen him? How is he?"

"Keep your voice _down_!" she hisses. "I shouldn't even be talking to you, I'm just supposed to be -"

"_Spying_ on me," he finishes for her, his voice carrying an acidic edge.

"Keeping an _eye_ on you," she corrects. "Dumbledore's not just going to let you wander the streets unprotected. He's got a whole _team_ of people whose job it is to keep you safe."

"Has Sirius been here then?" he asks. "He could protect me, in his dog form, and it'd be really cool to -"

"Voldemort knows about Sirius' animagus form by now. And so does Lucius Malfoy. It would be nothing short of idiocy on his part to wander all over the place for you in a disguise that's about as secret as Cornelius Fudge's ineptitude!"

Harry snorts, then frowns. "You said his name."

"Yes, I did," she replies, "Come on, let's get out of these woods, we don't want to wander out of the boundary of your mother's protection." She takes him by the arm and steers him in the direction of the nearest exit.

"If you're friends with Sirius," Harry begins. "Did you know my...my parents?"

Hermione sighs. "Yes. I knew them."

"How?" he asks eagerly, traipsing along beside her.

"I was at school with them," she says, the old feeling of grief whirling up inside her stomach again.

"What's Dumbledore up to?" he asks, changing tack, apparently realising that this was _not_ a subject she wanted to talk about. "Is he fighting Voldemort?"

"You're not allowed to know what Dumbledore's up to," she tells him. "And it's going to be that way for the foreseeable future, so get used to it."

"Why not?" he demands, stopping abruptly.

"Because he wants to _protect_ you. The more you know, the more vulnerable you are. Just keep your head down, and concentrate on preparing for your O.."

"You sound like _Hermione_," he says bitterly. "Voldemort's planning to take over the world but we'd best sort out our exams first."

It takes every ounce of willpower for her to not shoot back a sharp retort at him, to put him in his place. Instead, she simply says, "Well perhaps Hermione has got the right idea." It's odd to be talking about herself in third person to her best friend, but she struggles on. "Fudge's denial means that Voldemort can make his plans very quietly, without fear of attack. It's exactly what he wants, so he's not going to jeopardise it by storming around killing people just for kicks. He's got _other_ things to be concerned with."

"Like what?" Harry asks, his scowl dropping immediately, his face shining with curiosity.

"Like I said, you aren't allowed to know. But it's going to be quiet for a while yet, so concentrate on your school work. Fifth year's a tough one, don't get left behind."

She wonders, briefly, if he might take notice of her, but then she realises that it's _Harry_, and he's always going to be struggling with homework last minute, and expecting anything else puts her on the same level of the foolishness scale as Fudge.

"What's your name?" he asks shrewdly, frowning at a spot six inches to the right of her.

"Can't say."

"Why not?"

"You'll find out eventually," she says, walking more quickly towards the clearing.

"Are you a spy?"

Hermione smirks. "In a manner of speaking."

Harry's eyebrows contort at this comment, and they walk in silence for a few minutes, listening to the birds, singing half heartedly in the searing heat, and the distant sounds of children playing in the park.

"How long am I going to be here?" he says at last. "I can't stand it."

Hermione considers the matter, then remembers that Mundungus is on duty the following evening.

"Not long now," she says. "I can't tell you exactly, but it won't be much longer."

"Ron and Hermione have been together for ages," he says sulkily. "And they don't bother saying anything in their letters. I don't even know why they bother _writing_, it's just a waste of parchment."

Hermione sighs. It's been a long time since she's had to deal with him in this state, but she finds her patience has increased, this time around. "They want you to know that they're thinking of you."

"Not thinking hard enough if they haven't invited me to join them -"

"It's not _up_ to them," she tells him. "Believe me, they're not having nearly as much fun as you think."

"Right," he says, and she can tell by the flatness in his voice that he doesn't believe her for an instant.

"Look," she says, "I have to leave in a minute, and my replacement will be arriving. Don't tell anyone we talked, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because we're supposed to be _watching_ you, not _chatting_ to you."

"Well you didn't do a very good job of keeping quiet," he says sourly.

"Oh dear..." she sighs, and he looks even more irritated by this than anything else. "This year is going to be a terribly long one," she tells him. "Don't make it feel even longer by spending most of it feeling miserable."

"Easy for you to say," he glowers at a nearby tree, rather than her, but she gets the message regardless.

"Who's coming to replace you?" he asks once they reach the open playing field. The swings are hanging stock still in the distance, and a tired looking child hops off of the roundabout and follows its mother in the direction of the gates.

"No one you know," she tells him. It's Remus, but she knows better than to inform him that his favourite ever teacher will be hanging around for the next few hours.

"So how do we know that they _want_ to protect me?"

She bites back an exasperated sigh. He's determined to be fighting against the entire world, determined that nobody is on his side. "Dumbledore wouldn't send anybody here he didn't trust completely."

"Dumbledore reckons he trusts _Snape_ completely."

Blood boils in her veins at the mention of his name, but she ignores it. She has to.

"He's not sending Snape," she says.

"Good," he kicks an empty fast food bag, his scowl deeper than ever. "Because I'd rather have Voldemort attack me than have _him_ protecting me."

"Of course," she says simply, and leaves it at that.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: **Here's chapter 24 for your (hopefully) enjoyment. I actually finished the whole story this afternoon. I think. There are still some tweaks to be made, and I might find myself adding another chapter to make it flow better, but I think it's done. Anyway, let me know what you think of this. I love hearing from you. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>"Are you <em>sure<em> you won't stay for dinner?" Molly asks, looking up from the vegetables after she's bewitched a large knife to chop them speedily.

"I can't," Hermione replies. "_She's_ upstairs."

Sirius snorts.

"What?"

"I love how you refer to her as though she's an impostor," he says, getting to his feet and approaching her. "We could always transfigure you," he adds, raising his wand. "No one will be able to tell."

"Dumbledore was very strict -"

"Oh to _hell_ with Dumbledore," Sirius says, earning himself a reproachful look from Molly. "I don't think it's safe for you to be home alone."

"I'll be fine," she says, touching the side of his face. He's looking healthier than ever. He's had a haircut, and the weight he lost over the last year has been put on again thanks to Molly's cooking. He has that well cared for look that Hermione remembers from years ago, and she thinks she can detect the ebbing away of the haunted look in his eyes that Azkaban gave him. It will never be gone completely, of course, but he seems a little more human now, and a little more alive.

"You could always wait in the drawing room until I'm finished cooking," Molly says, "and take some stew home with you."

"It's fine, really," Hermione replies, tearing her eyes away from Sirius. "But thanks."

Molly sighs heavily. "It's all such a muddle, isn't it?" She dumps a huge pile of potatoes into a pot of bubbling water with a splash, then wipes her hands on her flowery apron.

"You're telling me," Hermione says tiredly.

At that moment, Arthur arrives in the kitchen, setting down his briefcase and collapsing into a chair.

"Three regurgitating toilets today," he says, dark circles prominent under his eyes. "Three! One in Highgate, another in Kensall Rise and _another_, this evening, in Crouch End. Poor lad was covered, head to toe in -"

"Arthur!" Molly scolds. "Not when we're about to eat."

"Sorry, Molly dear," he says weakly, sniffing the air, his lips curving into a tired smile. "Are you staying for dinner Hermione?" he asks.

She shakes her head, her heart swelling at the still foreign feeling of being cared for. She wishes now more than ever that she _could_, but Dumbledore would never allow it, not even if she swallowed a pint of Polyjuice Potion. She's sure it's not just her uncanny resemblance to her fifteen year old self that would be an issue, but the behaviour of everybody who knew. Sirius would have to work very hard to _not_ call her by her real name, and Harry, observant as ever would no doubt pick up on it. And if _Tonks_ was there...well, she might as well just confess all before anyone picks up their cutlery.

"Has everyone gone?"

Before she can even register that it's her own voice that is saying those words, Sirius has shoved her roughly into the pantry, pulling the door shut behind the pair of them. Hermione's heart is thudding, and it's so cramped that she's squashed between the shelves behind her, each plank of wood digging painfully into her back, and his chest, which is rising and falling quickly, his breath coming in hot puffs as they both strain their ears to listen.

"What was that?"

"Oh, just Sirius," Molly says airily, though there is a slight shake to her voice, unused as it is to uttering lies.

"What's he doing?"

"Packing up the Order things," Molly tells the young Hermione, her voice a little stronger now.

"Oh," Hermione replies blankly, while the Hermione inside the pantry is frowning, her nose crinkling.

"Is that _really_ what I sounded like?" she asks in a whisper.

Sirius places a hand over his mouth.

"Well, I'll lay the table, shall I?"

"Oh - oh thank you dear. That's very kind," Molly stammers.

Sirius groans quietly. "Just get rid of her, Molly!" he hisses.

They can hear the quiet clink of china and cutlery, and Hermione starts to relax, sure that she won't be discovered. How on earth she would go about explaining herself if she was, she had no idea. It was strange enough hiding in the pantry, without having to explain why Sirius was pressed up against her.

"Like old times, isn't it?" he whispers, grazing his lips against her jaw line.

She smiles, remembering the hours spent hiding in broom cupboards. They are such distant memories that they feel like they belong to an old movie, and it's hard for her to really get her head around the fact that it _was_ her and Sirius, taking advantage of the cramped, secluded spaces. Everything that followed after they left school seems to have overshadowed the happy memories, cut them off from their lives, as though the world thinks they ought not to have anything joyful to look back on.

Sirius kisses her neck softly, and Hermione's eyes flutter shut.

"Not here," she breathes. "Molly and Arthur are -"

Her sentence is cut off by his lips, pressing against her own, and when she doesn't protest - she couldn't even if she wanted to, for all thoughts of people outside the pantry door have vanished from her mind - he deepens the kiss, pushing his body against hers, forcing her even harder against the shelves, but the pain doesn't even register. Her arms loop around his neck and she tries to pull herself closer to him, but there's no gap to lessen.

* * *

><p>"Is she gone?" Sirius asks, poking his head out of the pantry door.<p>

"She was gone ten minutes ago, Sirius," Arthur says, smiling knowingly. Molly is busying herself over the stove.

"I should probably be on my way," Hermione says sheepishly, trying to drag the heat in her cheeks back down. She takes her jacket from the back of the chair she'd been sitting on during the meeting and swings it around her shoulders, wrestling her arms through the sleeves as quickly as possible.

Sirius follows her from the kitchen, walking ahead to check that the coast is clear. The last thing she needs is to walk straight into herself. They reach the front door with no interruptions, and Sirius kisses her softly, one last time. There is nothing else in the world that could make her want to stay for dinner as much, but with a level of control that Dumbledore would be proud of, she opens the front door, steps outside, and disapparates.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **Thanks, as ever, to those who took the time to review the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this one too. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>He's in a sour mood.<p>

Harry and the others have been gone only a few days, and already everything about him has darkened. She doesn't say anything as she watches him, his mouth set in a grim line. She reaches her hand across the table to place it on top of his, but he shows no acknowledgement of the contact. She rubs her thumb across his skin soothingly, and eventually, he looks up at her.

"I can't stay here on my own," he whispers hoarsely. "Not with just Kreacher here."

"_I'm here_."

"Yes, but you'll go home soon, I know."

She sighs. It's true after all. She can spend the weekends with him at Grimmauld Place, but when it comes to Monday again, when she has to return to work, it's much easier for her to be at her own place. He's always such a bad influence on her work habits when they're together - she arrives late, leaves early, and none of this goes unnoticed by her boss.

"Remus will be popping in and out, and Arthur and Kingsley and Tonks..."

Sirius shakes his head. "Hardly."

She doesn't know what to tell him. She can't tell him it gets better, because it won't. He'll be trapped in this house until the last night of his life. Clutching at straws, she tries to find some optimism.

"Nobody knows it yet, but they'll all be spending Christmas here."

His mood brightens at this. "Really?"

She nods.

"Harry as well?"

"Of course," she says obviously. "And me. Well. Young me."

He snorts at her look of disgust, and twists his hand so he can interlace their fingers.

"Just seeing her brings back so many memories."

"Seeing _me_ should bring back memories."

"Oh come off it," he says, and the sullen aura surrounding him is ebbing away. "Young you reminds me of when I knew _young you_. Seeing _you_ is the present. We shouldn't just live in the past."

It's Hermione's turn to snort now. "I don't have much of a choice."

He bites his lip, apparently wondering if he has touched a nerve, but she gives his hand a squeeze and smiles at him. He lifts her hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss against it. She loves the fact that he can still make her shiver with such a simple action, even after all these years. She loves that he can make her feel young again.

* * *

><p>"How's he getting on?"<p>

Arthur has conjured a comfortable looking armchair, complete with patchwork cushion, in front of Hermione's desk. He sits down with a gentle middle aged groan, his hands resting on his knees, and a bright, inquisitive look shining in his eyes.

"Okay," Hermione says, setting her paperwork to one side and placing her quill down next to her ink pot. "Up and down, really. Moody when I arrive on a Friday and moody when I leave on Monday morning, but all right in between."

"He missed you over the summer you know," Arthur says delicately. "Kept catching him staring at the other you, like he wanted to say something."

Hermione frowns, making a mental note to give him a stern talking to. On no account is he to give the game away, because if he does, she'll end up doing everything in her power to avoid _the incident_ and, despite all the complaining, all the loneliness and all the heartache, if she doesn't go back, then she'll never have him. She's not prepared to give him up for anything, though her younger self can't possibly be expected to understand this.

"Seems to be coming a bit more out of her shell now. Don't you think?" Arthur's still talking and Hermione looks up, pulling her thumb (and the attached chewed nail) away from her mouth.

"Sorry Arthur," she says. "Miles away."

He gives her a small smile of understanding. "Molly said she thinks Ginny's coming out of her shell a bit more. But it's difficult to judge, what with headquarters being so busy over the summer." He lowers his voice for the last dozen or so words, his eyes darting suspiciously around the office to check for eavesdroppers. Miles is immersed in the sports section of the _Daily Prophet_ and Roberta is applying _Mistress Magic's Quick Dry No Chip Nail Lacquer (Now Inflammable!) _to her fingernails with a look of concentration on her face that Hermione is yet to see her wear when actually working. Hermione shoots her a reproachful look - her break finished twenty minutes ago after all - and remembers she's supposed to be discussing Ginny.

"Yes," she says to Arthur. "She is. She was always so shy because of Harry before, but now...well. She's much more used to him."

Arthur nods, and there's a hint of sadness in his expression. Hermione guesses he wants Harry as a son in law just as much as Molly does.

"I told her she ought to start being herself a bit more, so Harry's actually got something to take notice of."

"And does it work?" Arthur asks, smiling slightly.

"Of course it does," Hermione says airily. "It was my idea."

Arthur chuckles, sitting back in his armchair and crossing his legs. "How long have you been quietly controlling people's destinies?"

"Well, it would have been a waste of everything I'd learned from Dumbledore if I hadn't done _some_ good with it."

Arthur nods, and, apparently missing the stiffness in Hermione's tone, says, "Great man, Dumbledore. Great man."

Hermione pulls her paperwork towards her again, and dips her quill into her ink pot, studiously ignoring Arthur's last comment.

"Oh!" he says, so loudly that Hermione jumps, and a large black blot of ink splatters onto her form. "Sorry," he says apologetically, as she siphons the stain off of the parchment with her wand. "But I remembered what I was going to ask you."

"Oh?" Hermione says, mildly interested, glancing between Arthur and the slowly decreasing pool of ink on her page.

"Yes," he says, leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, his eyebrows set in a serious frown. "Hot air balloons," he says. "How, and why?"


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: **Thanks to those who took the time to review last chapter, hope you enjoy this one. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>She's been waiting for this. She's already at the Ministry, and as soon as the call comes through from the paintings, she apparates downstairs.<p>

He's in a bad way, and she sends an emergency message to the healers at St Mungo's.

"Hang on," she says. "You're going to be fine, I promise."

Arthur smiles weakly, his hand shaking badly. She wonders if there was venom in that bite. She tries to halt the bleeding, but it is no ordinary snake bite. He's leaking like a sieve, wounds all over his torso and arms. She gives him a blood replenishing potion, brewed that morning in preparation - she can't stop the bleeding, but the more blood he has the longer he'll last.

There is a _pop_, and two healers in lime green robes appear with a stretcher floating between them.

"What happened?" the taller of the two asks, a quick quotes quill jotting down notes at his side.

"Attacked by a snake," she says breathlessly. "The blood won't clot, I've tried. I've given him some replenishing potion but he's bleeding so fast..."

The healer nods and Arthur is levitated onto the stretcher.

"Are you coming?" Arthur wheezes.

Hermione takes his hand gently. "I promise you'll be fine. Molly'll be there soon."

He nods, his eyelids fluttering shut.

The three of them disapparate, and Hermione is left alone in the darkness. First on her to do list is to get in touch with Dumbledore. She sends a patronus message, her little silver otter bounding out of her wand tip and disappearing through the ceiling.

_Arthur's in hospital. He'll be fine. I'll stay on duty. _

She wonders if it's just paranoia, but she's sure she can hear hissing. She keeps her eyes peeled and casts an extra-sensory charm, which only makes things worse. She can hear every little noise, every whisper of wind breezing its way through a cracked tile. Her own breathing is amplified tenfold, and shadows are morphing into images of serpents, only to dissolve when she casts her wand light over them.

She's scared.

She holds her wand steady, the small beam of light at the tip doing nothing to cancel out the darkness. The soles of her shoes are loud against the marble floor as she paces slowly up the corridor, checking every nook and every cranny for signs of Nagini.

There is a part of her that would much rather it were Voldemort here instead of his pet snake. He likes to make a song and dance of things, likes it all to go off with a bang. He doesn't hide.

Her heart is thudding her chest, so loudly that she's sure that wherever Nagini is, be it right behind her or five miles away, she will be able to hear. She can probably even taste her fear. She probably _enjoys it_.

She feels sick, and wishes she could go home. She can't though. One guard's been taken out already, Voldemort has the prime opportunity to come and take the prophecy for himself.

She sits on the floor, in front of the black door that has haunted her for years, and draws her knees up to her chest.

The little ball of light on the end of her wand only hammers it home how very alone she is.

What if Nagini were to attack _her_? Who would be there to save her?

Her question is answered with a loud _crack_.

"Evening Granger," Moody grunts, and without another word he limps heavily down the corridor, his wand light filling ever corner as he checks for threats. When he's making his way back, Hermione can see his magical eye spinning in its socket, and wonders how he can possibly _see anything_ when it's moving that fast.

"Constant...vigilance..." he says quietly, eye still whizzing in its socket.

"D'you think he'll come?" she asks.

Moody shakes his head. "Doubt it. He'll know Arthur's been picked up by now, the Order's on high alert, it's too risky, even for him."

"He could deal with us easily though."

Moody raises an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself."

She almost smiles. Then remembers that eventually, Voldemort _does_ deal with Moody.

She's glad there are only a couple of years left. She hates knowing what's coming. With times like this, it always puts a dampener on things.

"You know, Granger," he says, conjuring a wooden stool and sitting down on it with small groan of age, "It always surprised me that you never became an auror, after everything."

"Why?"

"Well, you just seem the type," he says, giving a sniff and resting his hands on his knees. His eye is _still_ turning in every direction.

"The type?" she's surprised by this. She's bookish. She has a desk job. That's not really auror material.

"Well, you get two types of aurors. Ones who want to seek justice and make the world a safer place, and ones like me, ones like the one _you_ would have been."

"Which are?" she's so curious now that she's not paying attention to the corridor, she's placing all her trust in his constant vigilance. She'd have made a shoddy auror, really.

"Ones who have nothing left to lose."

She sits back, resting her head against the wall and says nothing. It is a short while before she breaks the silence.

"I've got Sirius."

"Yeah, but for how long?"

Hermione's jaw drops open a little. Tactful is not a word she would ever have chosen to describe him, but she had no idea he would be _that_ insensitive. She shouldn't be surprised though. It _is_ Moody after all.

"I see the way you look at him. There's a death sentence hanging over his head, isn't there?"

If she can trust anybody to not say a word, to be objective about her situation, it's Alastor Moody.

"Yes."

"Well," he says gruffly. "After he's gone, I expect you to be joining Kingsley and his team. Waste of much needed talent if you ask me."

She's not sure she needed him to be _that objective._


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **Thanks to those who took the time to review the last chapter. You're all very very lovely indeed. Quick shameless plug, because I know there are a few Whovians who read this; I posted a oneshot yesterday - _Excalibur _- and you can obviously go and read it if you so wish. Spoilers for 6x07 though, so be don't go near it if you haven't seen the midseason finale. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>She spends most of Christmas Day alone. The last time she did this, Sirius was still locked up in Azkaban. Now, however, he's locked up in Grimmauld Place, forbidden to leave by Dumbledore.<p>

She stays in bed for most of the morning, staring through the gap in the curtains at the light sprinkling of snow fluttering past the window, and eventually, after dozing off for another hour or so, she makes the decision to get out of bed.

She slides her feet into her slippers, shivering slightly, before grabbing her dressing gown and wrapping it tightly around her. When she gets downstairs, she lights the fire with a jab of her wand, and sets about the most important business of the day.

Tea.

She leans against the counter, stirring for much longer than necessary, her eyes on the window as the snow starts to thicken, building on the window ledge. By the time she realises she's been standing there for around half an hour, the tea is lukewarm, her joints are stiff, and the snow is two inches thick. She shakes her head, drains the tea quickly, then, looking at the clock, decides she ought to get showered and dressed.

She spends a while by the fire, in _his_ chair, and looks at the clock, waiting for it to tick over to two o'clock. She seems to remember that was the time, but she can never be too careful, where her younger self is involved.

At a quarter past two, a wispy, shining silver dog plummets through the ceiling and bounds up to her. It speaks with _his_ voice.

"They've gone. Molly says she can probably keep them out until five o'clock."

Hermione stands up, grabs a handful of floo powder, throws it into the fireplace, and says as clearly as she can among the smoke and ash, "Number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

She staggers out into the basement kitchen, and he catches her before she loses her balance. She's coughing a lot, having breathed in a moment too soon. She doesn't often use the floo network, and this is precisely the reason why.

He pulls her close, kisses her on that bit that's not quite jaw and not quite neck, and whispers into her ear. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," she replies softly, and he steps back to get a good look at her.

"Molly's saved you a dinner," he says, breaking their contact, shoving his hand into an oven glove and pulling a foil covered plate out of the oven.

Hermione brightens at this, and sits down to eat while Sirius sets the washing up going with his wand. She's forgotten how much carnage is caused by a Weasley meal time, and her heart aches with the memory of when she experienced this day for the first time. There are random food spillages dotted over the table top, splashes of gravy, cranberry sauce, cheese sauce, and Butterbeer. A messy, discarded knife is sitting at one end of the table, apparently missed when Sirius transferred the dirty dishes to the sink. A clockwork dragon ambles past Hermione, making its way along the table, while several varyingly elaborate hats sit among the debris of the wizarding crackers.

It takes her a good half an hour to battle her way through Molly's excellent roast, and she gives a groan of longing when Sirius produces a bowl containing an indecently sized portion of trifle.

"I can't manage it!" she says, slumped her seat, arms resting on her full stomach. Her insides feel tight, and despite the discomfort of it, she's rather content.

"You've got to," he says, sliding the bowl across the table towards her. "Molly's orders. She thinks you're getting too thin."

Hermione frowns. "She hasn't seen me for ages."

"She doesn't need to _see_ you the come to that conclusion," Sirius says, his lips twisting into a handsome smirk. "She's got Arthur checking up on you at work, to make sure you're all right. From what I can gather he's been vague about whether you're too skinny or not, and so, naturally, she's assumed the worst."

Hermione doesn't know whether to roll her eyes or smile. While she's not sure she likes the idea of being _checked up on_, it still makes her feel warm to know that someone cares enough to do it. She could have done with being checked up on all those years Sirius was in Azkaban, could have done with a few hefty roast dinners, but she's got them now, and she supposes she'll be getting a great deal more after the summer.

The contented warmth inside her switches abruptly to chilly dread, and to combat it, she takes a spoonful of trifle and eats it quickly, wanting to forget about such things. It's Christmas after all, and if you can't refuse to look facts in the face at Christmas, when can you?

* * *

><p>Bizarrely, he wants to play wizard's chess, and she indulges him, with the distinct memory of Ron wiping the floor with him several times over the Christmas holidays. She tucks her feet under herself, her elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, fingers twiddling with her hair while she considers her next move. She knows she's going to lose, she knew it as soon as she agreed to play, but there's losing and then there's <em>losing<em>, and she'd rather not have to deal with the latter.

"Knight to E5," she says, but before the piece can move, Sirius grabs it, holding it in place.

"No no no!" he says, shaking his head. "If you move your knight to E5 then my queen's free to take it. You want to move your pawn to D3."

"Fine," she says, "Pawn to D3."

The knight stops struggling in Sirius' hand and the pawn makes its move. Hermione has no idea where to go next. She _should_ be good at chess. She's always been logical, but she can't bring herself to care enough to plan several moves in advance. Sirius probably has his whole game plan figured out by now, and is only stopping her from making stupid errors so she's an actual challenge to him.

There is a thud downstairs, followed by the sound of hushed voices and footsteps traipsing along the hallway. Sirius turns to look at the dusty old grandfather clock standing by the fireplace and swears loudly. It's half past five.

"Wait here," he says, and dashes from the room. Hermione can hear him greeting Ginny as he passes her on the stairs, and prays that she doesn't decide to wander into the drawing room.

Soon she hears the grumpy stamps and mutinous mutterings of the others, passing by the drawing room door and continuing up the next flight of stairs.

"Order meeting on Christmas Day!" George says venomously. "Yeah, just chuck us out in the season of good will, why don't you?"

"I don't think Voldemort stops because it's Christmas," Harry says quietly.

Fred makes a disparaging sound. "Well he should! Blimey, he's done enough damage for one year, can't he give it a rest and have a mince pie or something?"

"I don't think he's really started, Fred. Not yet."

Hermione jolts at the sound of her younger voice, and the conversation fades along with the footsteps. Sirius reappears shortly after, scaring the life out of her as he throws the door wide open without so much as a warning knock.

"Down into the kitchen," he says. "Quick."

She grabs the box of Honeydukes chocolates and the compendium of runic brain teasers Sirius gifted her and hurries downstairs, Sirius following furtively behind, closing the kitchen door with a snap once they're both safely inside.

"Sorry," she says to Molly, setting her things down on the table while she collects her other belongings. "Lost track of the time."

Molly waves a dismissive hand and pulls her into a hug. "Merry Christmas dear," she says.

"And you," Hermione replies quickly, glancing at the door. "Thanks for the dinner, it was _wonderful_."

Molly looks her up and down appraisingly, her hands on her hips. Then, apparently deciding that Hermione's not going to put on any weight just by being looked at, she claps her hands together, and pulls, apparently from nowhere, a colourful wrapped package, which she presses into Hermione's hands.

"Best open it when you get home dear," she says, "They'll be clawing down the door any second."

Hermione needn't ask who _they_ are, for at that moment, Ron's voice sounds from the other side of the closed door.

"Mum! I'm hungry, can we have some sandwiches?"

"In a minute, Ron!" Molly calls back, before flicking her wand at the door. There is a click as it locks, and the low hum of an Imperturbable Charm settling itself into place. She rolls her eyes, and returns to the counter, Hermione staring down at the squashy package in her hands. She's knows exactly what it is. She's never had one before, which makes her throat constrict all the more as she holds this one now.

"Merry Christmas, Hermione," Remus says, breaking the silence with a scrape of his chair legs. He gives her a brief hug, kisses her on the cheek, and hands her a large, bottle shaped present. Hermione raises an eyebrow.

"What are you trying to say?" she jokes, and the others chuckle.

It is a further five minutes before she finally steps into the fire place, delayed by hugs from Tonks, discussion with Moody, a courteous, though sightly stiff exchange of Christmas wishes with Mundungus, a final kiss from Sirius, and, to add to her already awkward load, a foil package of what Hermione estimates to be at least half a dozen turkey and stuffing sandwiches, a box of mince pies and a slice of Christmas cake, wrapped in a festive napkin adorned with waving snowmen.

She stumbles into the kitchen when she is blurted out into her own home again, and deposits the weighty pile of gifts and food onto the table.

She carefully opens the colourful paper containing her present from Molly. It's a pale blue cardigan, with delicate white snowflakes set neatly around the edges. It's more intricate than any of the jumpers she's seen the boys wear, and she wonders if Molly was aware how much it would mean to Hermione when she got it. She pulls the cardigan on over the top of her t shirt and conjures a mirror so she can admire it. It's truly lovely. A little loose, perhaps; Molly must have been a tad optimistic when sizing it up, but, after she's gotten through the huge pile of sandwiches, the box of mince pies, the Christmas cake _and_ the Honeydukes chocolates, Hermione's sure it will be a perfect fit.

She unwraps Remus' present, and then takes it into the lounge with a small glass tumbler, ready to spend the rest of the evening enjoying it.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: **Five more chapters after this one. Blimey. Feels like yesterday I was laying in bed coming up with the idea. Oh and just in case any of the Brits in/around London were unaware, check out the BFI website. They've got some Harry Potter all nighters, showing the films back to back. MEGA. Anyway, thanks to those who took the time to review. Hope you enjoy this chapter. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She has never known a silence quite like it.<p>

It feels exaggerated, though Hermione's not sure how one would really go about exaggerating silence. She can feel it pressing in on her from all sides, as though the room is shrinking, trying to crush her under the weight of nothingness.

She wonders perhaps if there is a charm on the corridor leading to that imposing black door that has haunted her dreams for twenty years, designed to make anybody in the vicinity feel uneasy, and on edge. She has never spoken to the others about it, though she has overheard Tonks saying that the place gives her the creeps.

Her fingers are numb, and she loosens her grip on her wand ever so slightly. It will not do to snap her wand in two while on guard duty. She can't do much guarding without a wand, and, come to think of it, she's not even sure she'll be able to apparate back to Grimmauld Place if it's broken.

She doesn't know why she's worried. The amount of hours she's spent, sitting on the black tiled floor outside this door must have reached the hundreds by now. And never, not once, has there been one single incident.

Apart from Arthur being attacked by a giant snake, but that wasn't during _her_ watch.

Dumbledore's quite sure Voldemort won't risk sending Nagini again. He had two on guard each night in the weeks that followed Arthur's injuries, but there simply aren't enough of them to keep it up.

Her book is resting on the floor by her feet, covered by the invisibility cloak. She hasn't touched it yet; she has been far too busy being paranoid, but there will come a time in the next hour or so when her nerves will have cooled and her muscles relaxed.

She realises that she could use this time to do some extra work in, to get ahead of the game, to keep her awake - if her brain is inactive for too long, she'll get tired, and if she gets tired she'll fall asleep, and when _Arthur_ fell asleep...

She widens her eyes, as though trying to prove to herself how very much awake she is. She scans the corridor, her eyes straining to see through the darkness, and, eventually, after much indecision, she decides she can spare enough of her attention span to get started on her book. In between weekends with Sirius and weekdays full of mundane, monotonous work, she doesn't find much time to read these days. She manages to steal a few hours of book time when she's on duty, but it's not quite the same. She doesn't feel like she can really absorb information well when she's terrified.

After every paragraph, she looks up, ears trying to hear sounds that are not there. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end until she is certain she is alone, and then she can continue to the next paragraph, glancing up quickly after every sentence or so, determined not to become distracted to the point of idiocy.

There are no windows in the corridor that leads to the Department of Mysteries, not like on the other floors, where the weather is controlled by Magical Maintenance. There is no hint of life down this black tiled corridor, and, what's more, no concept of time. Hermione refuses to check her watch while on duty, not until she knows she's been there a good long while. If she checks it once, she'll check it a thousand times, and the minute hand will have barely moved. The slowness of it will cause her to sigh, will increase her awareness of just how bored she is, and will make her dread her shifts more than ever.

She checks it now though, because the backs of her legs have gone numb from the uncomfortable sitting position on the cold hard floor, and her neck is aching from her constant peering. She is relieved to find that there are only twenty minutes left, a mere twenty minutes until she can return to Grimmauld Place, pass Mad Eye's cloak on to Tonks, and enjoy a well earned cooked breakfast from Sirius.

She can almost taste it, the memory of last weekend's post-guard duty breakfast resurfacing, dancing tantalisingly on the tip of her tongue. Her stomach rumbles loudly, and she flinches at the noise, not expecting it. A small gasp escapes her, and she clamps her hand over her mouth, wand held tightly in her fist as she stares around the corridor, sure that someone _must_ have heard her.

But there is no one there, and the next twenty minutes pass slowly, accompanied by a desperate longing for bacon and eggs.

* * *

><p>"You're doing too much," Sirius says, setting down a cup of tea in front of her and returning his attention to the frying pan. He looks over his shoulder at her, "It's dangerous for Dumbledore to put you on duty at all - especially at night."<p>

"It's dangerous for _anyone_ to be on duty," she tells him, closing her eyes and making herself as comfortable as possible in her wooden chair. "Voldemort can't possibly know the rota, and we've got the invisibility cloaks..."

"I would have thought he'd be more careful with you," he says, carefully dishing up bacon before check on the toast that's browning nicely under the grill. "You're just as precious to him as Harry."

"You mean I'm just another tool in his fight against Voldemort?"

Sirius frowns, buttering the toast and halving it before putting on the plate. "You're not a tool to him." He's stirring the beans slowly, and she can tell that he's concerned about Harry, concerned about what's coming. "He cares about you."

Her own voice echoes the sentiment inside her head, this time said to Harry on those dark nights in the tent, when all seemed like it was lost, when every action was proving futile, when moods were low and tensions high.

He places her breakfast in front of her, and Hermione takes the opportunity to end the conversation by rapidly starting to eat. She doesn't want to hear anymore about how Dumbledore's doing the best he can. She's not sure she'll ever be able to forgive him for Cedric's death. Sirius' imprisonment, she can _almost_ understand, but Cedric she will never. Sirius sighs, pours himself a cup of tea from the teapot and sits down opposite her.

"I know it's been shit. We've both had shit luck," he says at last. "But we've got each other, and that's all we'll ever really need."

Hermione chokes on her toast, and Sirius picks up his wand quickly, waving it and clearing Hermione's airway. She drains the last of her tea, eats a little more of her breakfast, and then tells him she's going to bed.

She doesn't get any sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: **So, the tie for my favourite chapter is between this one and chapter thirty one. This was a bit thrilling to write, so I do hope you all enjoy it. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

><p>There is a sharp rap at the front door. Frowning, she gets off of the settee, grabbing her wand from the coffee table.<p>

Sirius hardly ever uses the front door. Always the back.

Maybe it's Kingsley, or Dumbledore, or Remus.

She knows a split second too late that she should never have opened the door.

He's dirty looking, his teeth yellow, the edges of them black and rotting. His hair is greasy, his eyes sunken, and he is ticking every box of the Azkaban escapee check list. She backs into the kitchen, wand raised, but there is a crash as the kitchen door is kicked open forcefully, and she turns her head to see another death eater leering at her, his dark eyes sparkling with malice, his pointed teeth biting on his dry and cracked bottom lip with excitement.

She backs against the cooker, so she can see both of them, her mind whirring. She can fight, but there's a good chance she'll lose. She hasn't had to duel for ages, she's out of practice, and on top of that, it's two on one, and on top of _that_, two death eaters whose crimes were so great that they landed themselves with life sentences in Azkaban.

She thinks of Sirius' face, thinks of the feeling of his arms around her, and a burst of silver erupts from her wand, disappearing through the ceiling.

The moment it takes for her to send the message costs her. She is disarmed the second the spell leaves her wand tip, and the small stick on which her life depends soars out of her hand, to be caught by the taller of the two death eaters.

"You can come with us quietly, my lovely," the one nearest approaches, and Hermione edges away, her nose scrunching at the smell coming from him. "It would be a shame to cut that pretty face of yours."

"Or," the other one says, closing in on her from the other side. "You can try and fight, without a wand," his lips twist into a smirk at this. "And we'll be forced to subdue you."

"You're Rabastan Lestrange, aren't you?" she says quietly. His smirk widens, and Hermione turns to the other one, "And I don't know who _you_ are."

"Valdemar Travers," he replies softly. "Perhaps you've seen my wanted poster?"

Hermione ignores him, her eyes fixing on the clock, watching the second hand tick slowly past. He should _be here_ by now. Stomach acid rises in her throat as she realises that there is every chance that her message didn't reach him, that Lestrange may have disarmed her too soon.

She has no wand, and there is a very strong possibility that nobody is coming for her.

"How did you get through my enchantments?" she asks shakily, trying to buy herself some time. She knows a thing or two about death eaters, knows they love to reveal to mudbloods how much more intelligent they are than them.

Lestrange laughs, but Hermione doesn't manage to find the humour.

"It was _easy_," he says. "The Dark Lord has taught us more than your little mudblood head could ever dream of. Breaking those enchantments was easier than crushing an insect. I'm sure the Dark Lord will find your pathetic attempts at protection _most_ amusing when we tell him."

"You won't be telling him _anything,_" she spits, "and nor will I."

"Then I'm afraid you're going to have to face the _consequences_," Lestrange says silkily.

"If you come with us, and tell the Dark Lord everything he needs to know -" Travers says, his wand directed straight at her chest.

"We needn't _hurt_ you." Lestrange is disgustingly close, his dirty fingers trailing along Hermione's forearm.

"You _can't_ hurt me," she says, her voice strong, though she cannot keep the tremor at bay.

"_Watch us_."

Travers raises his wand, but Lestrange pushes his arm down sharply.

"No! The Dark Lord wants her _un_damaged! We can't go and do another _Longbottoms_ on her, he'll _kill_ us!"

At the mention of Frank and Alice, Hermione's eyes prickle, and before she knows what she is doing, she has grabbed the back of one of the chairs, and whipped it through the air with all the speed and strength she can muster. It crashes into the side of Lestrange's head, breaking into pieces and she shoves him to the floor. Her wand falls out of his grip and she dives for it, but too late, it has rolled under the fridge and the gap is far too narrow for her hands.

She twists around, thinking that perhaps she can take Lestrange's wand from him, but he's on his feet again, his hair matted with blood, trickling scarlet down the side of his face.

"_Crucio!_"

She screams, pain ripping through her body, but it doesn't last long.

"What did I _tell you_?" Lestrange roars, seizing Travers by the scruff of his robes.

Hermione scrambles to her feet, and grabs the frying pan from its hook on the wall, before pelting out of the door and along the hallway. She hurries up the stairs, diving into her bedroom and pulls her chest of drawers in front of the door. She can hear Travers and Lestrange thundering up the stairs, and dashes over to the wardrobe and tries to shift it, but it won't move. Tears of panic and fear are falling down her cheeks, thick and fast, clouding her vision. All she wants is Sirius, but he's miles away, completely unaware of the fact that she's fighting for much much more than her life.

The door shudders, and Hermione jumps, though the chest of drawers is holding it closed for now. It won't keep them out forever though, and she runs to the window, looking down at the pavement, wondering how much damage the drop will do to her.

She won't be able to run far enough before they realise, and she can't lead them anywhere that there are muggles - there's no sense in anyone _else_ dying over this.

There is a _bang_, and the chest of drawers shoots away from the door. Hermione leaps out of the way just in time, and it smashes against the wall, where she had just been standing moments ago.

"What do you think you're going to do with _that_," Travers demands, pointing his wand at the frying pan.

At this distance, she knows it's useless, but if she can get close enough without getting hexed...

Lestrange shoots a Stunning Spell at her, and Hermione raises the frying pan automatically in front of her. The jet of red light collides with it, and rebounds, hitting the mirror, cracking it, and rebounding again, heading straight for Travers.

Lestrange pulls him down, out of the way, and the spell hits the wall, leaving a hefty dent in it.

Travers lets out a roar of anger and lunges at Hermione. She darts out of the way, and raises the frying pan, but he grabs her arm, twisting it so far it feels like it might break. She drops the pan and it clatters to the floor. Travers slams her into the wall, wrenching her arm further behind her and she shrieks in pain.

There is a loud _crack_, and Hermione thinks for a split second that it's her arm, finally giving in to the pressure exerted on it by Travers. She can feel him turn away behind her, and his grip on her falters. She takes the opportunity to try and wriggle out of his grasp, but his fingers tighten around her arm once more.

"Well, well," Lestrange says, paying no attention to Hermione's struggling. "Sirius Black. How good of you to join us."

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Hermione screams. She cannot tell whose voice has cast the curse, and as the room illuminates in a flash of green, she struggles harder than ever against Travers, whose hands fall away almost immediately. She dives over to the bed, out of reach, and through tear filled eyes she sees Rabastan Lestrange lying dead on her bedroom floor. And then, one polished black boot steps over the body, followed by another, and Sirius is there.

Hermione lets out a sob as relief floods through her like Butterbeer, but he doesn't look at her, his gaze is focused on Travers.

"Get out, Hermione," he says through gritted teeth.

Hermione doesn't need telling twice. She runs over to the door

and grabs Lestrange's wand from his open hand, her arm still throbbing painfully.

"Sirius -"

"Get _out_."

"_Crucio_!"

Sirius dodges, and the spell misses by inches. He shoots a hex in return, but Travers deflects it. It collides with the window and the glass shatters.

"Hermione get _out_! Go! They can't take you!"

She knows she _should_ go, knows he is right, but what sort of person would she be if she left him there duelling a convicted death eater? Spells and hexes are flying through the air, and Hermione shrieks as a burst of green light narrowly misses Sirius. It is the last straw. She storms back into the room and joins the fray, shooting as many hexes at Travers as she possibly can. He is backing into a corner, and she fires a Stunning Spell, sure that this is the end.

He blocks it, and before Hermione knows what is happening, she is thrown back, and collides painfully with the solid wooden wardrobe that she had fruitlessly tried to shift in front of the door earlier. Her head is spinning, and she raises a hand to touch the back of her skull. She feels something warm and wet, and her vision swims before her eyes. The jets of coloured light are blurring together, in an almost beautiful haze of reds and greens and blues. She tries to get to her feet, but every bone in her body feels like it's made of rubber. She raises Lestrange's wand, trying to aim it at Travers, but she can't distinguish him from Sirius.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The room glows green, and Hermione shields her eyes, unable to stand the intensity of the light. There is a thud, and the light vanishes.

"Sirius?" she calls tearfully, "_Sirius!_"

"I'm here," he says, and she sees his blurred figure approach her. He crouches down, and tilts her head forward to inspect the wound. He mutters a few words, his wand directed at the painful lump on her head, and immediately her vision becomes much clearer. "We need to get out of here," he says.

"My wand," she says, quietly. "It rolled under the fridge."

"All right," he says, "We'll get it before we go." He pulls her to her feet and leads her over to the bed, where she sits, still rather dazed. He presses a cotton scarf into her hand and then places both of them on the back of her head. She winces at the touch, but soon becomes accustomed to it, as Sirius conjures a suitcase, and waves his wand. It fills instantly, with clothes, books, framed photographs from the bedside cabinet, and finally her toothbrush, which lands neatly on top of the lot. He zips the case shut quickly and taps it with his wand. It disappears with a crack so loud that Hermione flinches, the sound echoing around her aching head like a gun shot.

"_Accio Hermione's wand_."

A few seconds pass where nothing happens, and then, with a soft whiz, Hermione looks up to see her wand flying into the room, coming to a halt in Sirius' open palm. He passes it to her, and she drops Rabastan Lestrange's wand, glad to be rid of the wretched thing. It's the wand that helped destroy the minds of Frank and Alice, and just touching it makes her feel sick.

Then, he turns to the largest patch of blank wall, and raises his wand.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Leaving Voldemort a message."

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on anything other than the roughened squeak that accompanies Sirius carving into plaster with his wand. When he finishes, he takes her by the hand and pulls her to her feet.

"Let's go," he says, casting one last disgusted look at Travers and Lestrange.

He turns on the spot, gripping Hermione's hand tightly. Just before she disappears into the crushing darkness, her eyes find the three words carved messily into her bedroom wall.

_SHE IS PROTECTED._


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: **Here we are, chapter thirty! Woop! Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter, glad you enjoyed the actiony shiz. Hope you enjoy this one just as much. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She's still not quite used to waking up every morning to the faded, vacuous smiles of bikini clad muggle girls, plastered on the walls from an old clothing catalogue. Sirius looks at her sheepishly every time he sees her rolling her eyes at them, and tells her, in his defence, that he cast the Permanent Sticking Charms keeping them in place long before he met her.<p>

Part of her wants to return to her own house, but Dumbledore, Sirius, Molly, Arthur, Remus, Kingsley, Mad-Eye, Tonks and just about everyone else who considers it to be their business has forbidden it. Dumbledore has talked to her about giving up work, has told her that she's vulnerable in the Ministry when Fudge is determined to look the other way while Voldemort grows stronger. She flat out refused when he suggested it though. She cannot possibly hope to retain her sanity while forced to stay locked up in this house for however many years.

The reason she wants to go home is selfish and cowardly, but she can't help that. He only has a few weeks left, before _that night_, and the longer she spends in his company now, the harder it's going to be for her not to interfere, and the more painful it will be when she goes from waking up next to him every morning, to waking up alone, in his bed, in his bedroom, with his muggle girls staring into space, as though they're wondering where he's gone.

If she goes home, however, she'll continue to see him at the weekends, but it will be an easier transition. She'd much rather be weaned off of him slowly than waking up one day to find she's going cold turkey.

Although, she supposes, if she's going to go cold turkey, as she'll inevitably have to, perhaps she ought to try and fit a lifetime into the next three weeks.

Unfortunately, there's not much to do, _lifetime wise_ around Grimmauld Place, but she starts getting better at wizard's chess, listens to the radio with him in contented silence, and spends lazy Sunday mornings in bed, tangled in the blankets with him.

She arrives home ten minutes late one night, and he looks at her as though he's seen an inferius.

"Where have you been?" he demands hoarsely. "I was about to alert Dumbledore!"

Hermione frowns. "I was finishing off some paperwork," she tells him, setting her bag on the kitchen table and shrugging her jacket off. "I'm only ten minutes late."

"It takes less than ten seconds to kidnap someone," Sirius says darkly. "And it's ten times easier after official Ministry opening hours."

"For goodness' sake," Hermione sighs, sitting down at the table. "The place is always _packed_ until about half past six."

"I don't _care_," he says, holding her gaze until she is forced to look away. "If you're not home at five on the dot from now on, I'm going to get Dumbledore to stop you from -"

"Stop me from what?" she demands loudly. "Stop me from having any control at _all_ over my own life? I'm not allowed to _live_ where I want, I'm not allowed to _work_ where I want, I'm not allowed to _say_ what I want -"

"You don't want to live with me?" his severity is replaced by an expression of hurt and vulnerability, and she stops, mid rant.

"Not _here_," she says. "This place is so..."

"Depressing, I _know_. But it could be _worse_."

Yes, it could be, and it probably will be, in a few weeks' time. She wonders if Dumbledore will force her to stay, or whether he'll find somewhere else for her. If he tries to keep her in Grimmauld Place after Sirius has...well. She won't be following _that_ order, she's quite sure of that.

She's not even allowed to go and visit Professor McGonagall, after she's been transferred to St Mungo's. Even Dumbledore can't go to see her, with aurors searching for him fruitlessly around every corner and behind every doorway. Hermione wonders if Dawlish has even looked in the biscuit barrel in the Auror office. She wouldn't put it past him, but then again, she wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to disguise himself as a flowery biscuit barrel and place himself in the heart of danger, just for kicks.

"I have spoken to Healer Smethwyck," he says at the next meeting, a grave expression on his face. "Minerva should make a full recovery. Quite remarkable, after four stunners to the face at her age..."

"It's _disgusting_," Molly says angrily, and there's a murmur of agreement. "How can Fudge _possibly_ keep Umbridge at Hogwarts after the aurors almost _killed_ a member of senior staff without a single reason?"

"Fudge cares very little for right and wrong these days," Dumbledore sighs. "He is far more concerned with having ears and eyes in every location that he thinks may host a threat to his position."

"Idiot," Bill says darkly. "Do we know how long it'll take Professor McGonagall to recover?"

A few people look at Hermione, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Dumbledore clears his throat softly, while Sirius shoots them all dark looks, and they turn away.

"Suffice to say she will be back before the start of the next school term," Dumbledore says. "Perhaps she'll manage to make it back in time for the leaving feast, she does enjoy her carrot cake, and it would be a shame for her to miss out."

"I hope she gets better soon," George says, his expression unusually troubled. "She caught me and Fred putting out that Portable Swamp, asked us what we were doing, then said it would cause a great deal more disruption to put it in the east wing instead."

Dumbledore's lips curve into a smile, while Molly looks caught somewhere between disapproval and amusement. After Umbridge's attack on McGonagall and Hagrid, she seems to have forgiven Fred and George for their dramatic departure from Hogwarts, her dislike for _Old Toadface_ (as the twins like to refer to her) far outweighing her disapproval of their new business endeavours, which, despite only just beginning to bloom, are serving them very well indeed.

"I _knew_ she was a troublemaker deep down," Sirius says happily. "I was _sure _she was almost going to smile when James and I cursed the Slytherins so all they could say was '340 to 60' in our fifth year. D'you remember, Remus?"

"Oh yes," Remus says softly. "How could I forget?" he casts a wary eye over to where Dumbledore's sitting, but he doesn't seem to mind that the old Gryffindor prefect turned a blind eye to the wrong doing of his friends.

"Why did you make them say that?" Hermione asks, her eyebrows contorted into a frown.

"Quidditch score," he replies happily. "James absolutely _pummelled _the goal keeper, scored about twenty goals."

"What spell did you use for that, Sirius?" Fred asks, but his tone is far too casual, the loosely held quill in his right hand far too close to a scrap of parchment. Molly clears her throat pointedly and Sirius stops, the words about to fall from his mouth. Hermione sees Fred mouth the word '_Later_', and Sirius winks, doing his best to avoid Molly's reproachful spirits have buoyed dramatically of late, and Hermione thinks he's living vicariously through Fred and George's tales of rebellion, laughing heartily at recounts of _Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-Bangs_ or chuckling merrily as orders for _Skiving Snackboxes_ arrive in their hundreds, many attached with notes of congratulations, admiration and awe.

"Have you heard from Hagrid?" Molly asks, changing the subject swiftly, and Dumbledore turns his pleasant smile away from the twins and onto her.

"Oh yes, he's getting along just fine," Dumbledore tells her. "Staying in the cave that Sirius found most homely last year I believe."

"Oh yes, very homely," Sirius replies. "Nice and cosy, especially in the winter, all that lovely _ice_."

Dumbledore's lips twitch at the sarcastic edge to his voice, but he makes no comment, and instead, decides to round up the meeting. There is a little chatter and much scraping of chairs as people bid goodbye to each other, disappearing through the fireplace in bursts of emerald green flames.

The twins corner Hermione, having been fully briefed by Dumbledore about _the situation_ before they were permitted to join the Order. Sirius is keeping one eye on her while he talks quietly to Mad-Eye, whose electric blue glass eye is swivelling speedily in its socket.

"Hermione!" George cries cheerfully, bestowing a friendly hug upon her. "How are you? You don't look a day over sixteen."

She raises an eyebrow suspiciously and George simply grins at her.

"We have a question," Fred says, getting straight to the point.

"You know I -" she begins, but George cuts her off.

"Nothing serious! Nothing about the future even. It's about _now_."

"We want to know what Hogwarts is like, from a student perspective -" says Fred.

"We want to know how much trouble's being caused, who's causing it, and how much it's destroying Umbridge's soul."

"Well," Hermione says, her lips curving into a smile as she shakes the dust off of the memories and pulls them to the surface. "Everyone's throwing up and fainting in lessons, and they're calling it _Umbridgitis._"

"Excellent!" Fred says happily. "What else?"

They question her thoroughly for the next hour, until Molly jabs the pair of them with her wand, orders them into the fireplace, and apologises to Hermione.

She doesn't mind one bit.

She's missed them. A lot.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: **So this is my other favourite chapter, tied with 29. I had four words in my plan for this chapter, and it was the title of a Green Day song which pretty much summed up the whole thing. Cookies if you spot it, (don't want to say now otherwise it'll spoil it before you even read it) and if you're curious I'll post the link to the song on my twitter page a bit later. I think it's important that everyone in the universe hear that song because it's lovely. Anyway, I'm rambling. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you like this one as much as I do. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She is not sure how they have arrived at this point.<p>

Nor is she sure how it can be so mundane.

Sirius is cooking (he's become quite the expert in his few years of freedom) and he's absolutely oblivious that this will be his last dinner. Ever.

He's noticed her mood - he's been watching her shrewdly in the last couple of weeks, concerned about her shrinking appetite, the haunted look in her eyes that's been intensifying every day, and the grey tinge her skin has taken on. Whenever he asks her about it, Hermione assures him that she is fine, that she's been snowed under at work, that she's feeling a little under the weather but it's nothing to worry about; in short, anything that will make him shut up.

She can't bear the idea that he might find out, and it's taking every last particle of willpower she can muster not to burst into tears and beg him not to die.

It's a very difficult thing to ask of someone, admittedly, but she'd greatly appreciate it if he could put it back a few decades. Tomorrow doesn't suit her.

No day will ever suit her.

He's made spaghetti carbonara. He's been thrilled with the muggle cook book she picked up for him during one of her lunch breaks, and every night for the past week has been about culinary exploration. She wishes she'd bought it sooner - he'd have had months to try things out, and she might have been able to bring herself to enjoy them. She knows the spaghetti tastes magnificent, but she can't _properly taste_ it. The sensation isn't there. She's just aware of it.

He seems rather pleased with himself though, twirling it around his fork and shovelling it into his mouth, only pausing to take a sip of his mead. His dark eyes flick up to hers every so often, his brow creased in concern and confusion. Eventually he puts his fork down, his plate clear, while Hermione is still pushing her pasta around her plate.

"Just tell me it's not Harry," he says.

"What?" she asks, blinking.

"You're upset. Something's going to happen. Just tell me it's not Harry who suffers."

He will suffer. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally, from losing the closest thing he's ever had to a parent. He'll suffer even more when he comes to realise that Voldemort has seen to the deaths of everyone who ever gave a damn about him.

"Harry's fine," she says at last, not meeting his eyes. Those eyes will be burned into her memory forever, and while a part of her wants to cling on to every bit of him she can, another part, and it's a very large part, wishes that all traces of him are wiped from her mind completely.

She's a coward, she's well aware of that. But he's the only thing that's kept her sane. He has always, _always_ looked after her, made her feel better, and now she's going to lose him. She can't face it. This isn't just a simple case of _missing him_. If it was about missing him she'd have gone stir crazy during the twelve years she had to go without him. This is much bigger than that. This is about _needing _him. She doesn't know how she'll even be able to function after tomorrow night.

Maybe she could get Remus to cast the memory charm on her.

But he'd never allow it. And he'd probably be disgusted with her for asking.

She's almost jealous of Sirius. It sounds childish, after everything he's been through, after everything he's suffered, but there is a little knot in her chest that's glowing green with envy. He gets to die first. He doesn't have to suffer the loss because he _is_ the loss. He doesn't have to go through the war - this will be her _third_ now. She's not sure she can hack it.

She would give anything to switch places with him.

* * *

><p>"Inventor of the lunascope. Eight letters and another eight letters."<p>

She hears the words, but pays them no attention. She's staring instead at the empty fireplace in the drawing room. Perhaps if she can stare hard enough and long enough, she won't notice when he doesn't return home tomorrow night.

"Hey," he says, putting the crossword book and his quill down, and reaching over to take her by the arm. The warmth of his flesh seeps through her sleeve, heating her all over. She gives in and looks at him. It's only when he pulls her close that she realises she's crying, and when he holds her tightly the silent tears turn into quiet sobs, which become louder and louder the tighter he holds her.

"It's going to be okay," he says. "I promise."

She cries harder than ever, gripping onto his shirt, not wanting to let him go. Ever.

She can feel his beard scratching against her forehead, feel the beating of his heart under her fist, smell the expensive aftershave that he found in a drawer in his bedroom. It is the same aftershave he used when they were young, and nothing more than that makes her wish they were seventeen again, and back at Hogwarts, with Lily and James, alive, and Remus, before he became tired of the world. She wishes she still had faith in Dumbledore, that she still trusted him unconditionally, that she still believed he was looking after them all.

She wishes she could have another _incident_, but life has taught her that luck does not come to those who wish for it the most. It comes to those who _deserve _it, and despite everything she has suffered, she is quite aware that she doesn't deserve luck.

Sirius carries her up to bed, and the tears begin to subside a little. She doesn't feel any better, but the tightness in her chest has eased, if only because the vast store of worry and dread has been released into the air, unexplained, yes, but it's out there nonetheless.

He places her gently on the mattress and lies down next to her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her neck softly. His fingers find hers in the low light and he laces them together, their hands a perfect fit, so accustomed to being two halves of a whole.

She will be lucky, she thinks, if she can manage to live a half life after tomorrow, and she wonders what happened to the girl she once was. She was strong, and stubborn, and she made it through plenty of terrible things without ever giving up.

But then, _she_ never had to give up Sirius. Voldemort's right. Love makes you weak. She wonders what Dumbledore will say to that, after Sirius has gone. He can't possibly try and convince her that she's a better person, having suffered the loss. She's not sure he'll even dare to try.

She's a better person for having known Sirius though. She knows that. And given the choice, she's sure she still would have chosen to love him, even if she does have to deal with the consequences. She's a fool really, she shouldn't have fallen for him in the first place. She shouldn't have been charmed by him, and his smile, and his voice, and the way his hair used to fall over his eyes.

She shouldn't have gotten addicted to the way he would look at her in lessons, completely ignoring everything McGonagall or Slughorn or any of their other teachers were saying. She shouldn't have craved the sensation of his gaze burning into her, while he pretended to take notes.

She should never have let him kiss her, that first time, in the empty Transfiguration classroom.

She should never have kissed him back, for that matter.

But she did. She was an idiot and she fell in love with a man she would never truly be able to have.

"I'm sorry I'm such a coward," she whispers, her voice clogged with tears.

He shushes her and holds her more closely. She twists in his arms so she is facing him.

"I love you," she says.

"I know," he says.

She thinks now that he must have worked it out. He _must _have. Because it's only on your last night on earth that you can make someone realise just how much you love them, without needing to say a single word.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: **Penultimate chapter, guys! Exciting stuff! Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, and cookies to those who got Last Night on Earth. (Youtube it if you haven't heard it. Trust me.) Anyway, I'm heading off for a few days, sans laptop, so the final chapter won't come until I get back. Hopefully this will be enough to tide you over until then, and I hope that you enjoy it. Let me know what you think! =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>She leaves for work that morning knowing full well she will never lay eyes on him again.<p>

She kisses him a little longer than she had the previous day, takes a few seconds to look at him, to freeze the image of him in her mind, and then disapparates. She manages to stumble through the atrium and into the lift, paying no attention and missing her floor. When she arrives at her desk she sits down, stares at her in tray for a good ten minutes and then bursts into tears.

Her colleagues can't get any sense out of her, and one of them suggests that she be taken to St Mungo's, but no, she tells them, wiping her eyes and pulling herself together. That won't be necessary.

"Why don't you go home, eh?" her manager says kindly, an arm around her shoulder.

She shakes her head. If she goes home she'll go insane, she'll do something stupid. She's sure of it.

She completes her paperwork in a daze, taking five times longer than usual, checking for errors, _correcting_ said errors. All she can think of is the past seventeen years, how it has all been leading to this day. She's had all that time to think about it, all that time to make the most of it and what does she do? She kisses him, leaves him to die and tries to go on with business as usual.

She's disappointed in herself.

No.

She's ashamed.

She feels so powerless. She knows what's going to happen, she knows he's going to die, but she can't do a single thing about it.

So what's the point of her? What is the point of having to start from scratch in the past if you can't save the people you love?

She wonders what Dumbledore would say to _that_.

* * *

><p>Arthur comes by towards the end of the day, to discuss the ever increasing problem of muggle traps.<p>

"They had one in Willesden Green yesterday, and another in Bow this morning - I tell you, it's a horrible sight, they're just hanging there by the ankles, blood everywhere of course, took three memory charms to make one poor girl forget it all..." he trails off, sinks back in his chair and surveys her. He frowns, and when he speaks, his voice has taken on a hard, serious tone. "What's the matter?"

Hermione blinks, and says nothing. Arthur looks around the office and scoots his chair closer to her desk.

"Is it You-Know-Who?" he asks in a whisper.

What can she say? 'Two of your children are going to run off and battle with Death Eaters tonight, but don't worry they'll be fine'?

"Hermione, if something's going to happen we_ have_ to be prepared."

She shakes her head.

"Hermione, you're the best chance we've got at winning this war!"

"Dumbledore _said_," she begins, her voice shaking, but she doesn't need to continue, because Arthur knows exactly what Dumbledore has said. He puts a hand to his forehead and rubs it, his eyes squeezed tight shut.

She wants to tell somebody. Just so they know, just so they can understand how she's feeling.

She needs to be told that she's doing the right thing, by doing nothing.

"Sirius is going to die tonight," she whispers.

Arthur looks up sharply, his hand dropping onto the arm of his chair. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sirius. He's going to die. Tonight."

Saying it out loud makes it feel as though he's already gone, and she manages to remain remarkably calm. Her lip is trembling though, her eyes prickling, and what she wants most in the world is for somebody to hug her and tell her it's all going to be okay.

It's not.

"Sirius is going to _die_?"

She nods.

"So why are you still sitting here? _Save him!_"

"I _can't!_"

"Dumbledore's rules?"

"_Yes_."

"You think they're more important than Sirius' _life_?"

She meets Arthur's gaze and learns the most important lesson of her life.

She's _such _a fool.

* * *

><p>She arrives at Grimmauld place too late. He's already long gone.<p>

She paces around the kitchen, crying. She screams at Kreacher.

Molly tries to comfort her, but she has no idea about what's going on. She has no idea that Sirius is the only one who's not going to make it out of there.

It's almost like a sign. _You're too late. You should have gotten here on time. You should have known how important he is. You don't deserve to have him. _The taunts fly round and round in her head, and it's even worse now, after Arthur had given her the hope that she might see him. She can't just go to the Ministry. She might _see herself_, and what would happen then? She's missed her last chance, if she tries now, the whole world will come crashing down, and Dumbledore will be there among the rubble, with that grim disappointed look that his ice blue eyes always communicate so well.

Now she has to stay here while _her world_ comes crashing down, and Dumbledore will be there among the rubble, telling her how Sirius died a heroic death, and she couldn't possibly have done anything to save him.

The timeline had always planned it this way.

She comes to a decision. To _hell_ with the timeline. To _hell_ with Dumbledore, and to _hell _with Voldemort. He's taken everything he can from her twice already. She's not going to be a victim the third time round. She won't let it happen.

She wonders if Dumbledore always knew it would be like this. Perhaps he'd always planned for this to be the moment when she broke the rules.

She doesn't much care.

All she knows is that she's going to hang on to the only thing she's got left, and the consequences can go to hell along with the others.

She disapparates, making a promise to herself that she will only return to Grimmauld Place with Sirius Black at her side.

After all, the night is darkest just before the dawn, and she's had more than enough darkness for one lifetime.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: **Here we are. The end. Thanks for everyone who's stuck around for the whole ride, thanks to all of you who have reviewed and said lovely things. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. There may be some oneshots involving this arc in the future, because I've grown far too attached to this Sirius and this Hermione, so keep an eye out for those. Thanks again. =]

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><p><strong>Before the Dawn.<strong>

**by Flaignhan.**

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><p>He's not sure what shocks him the most.<p>

She's gone, he knows that much. He can't register it yet; he hasn't been back to the house, hasn't seen the once-there-now-not feeling that has bled its way through the entire place - half eaten meals, notes on counter tops, discarded outfits, half made beds.

He's still in custody, but he wonders whether he'd have gone back even if he wasn't.

She knew, all along, from the second he met her, she knew how it would end.

And still she let herself fall.

That shocks him. Hermione is (_was_, he _must_ get used to saying _was_) sensible, she doesn't _(didn't_) fall for men who are going to be locked up for twelve years then die a couple of years after that. He knows that curse was meant for him, he knows it better than anybody else. That lingering look of relief, frozen on her face as she fell through the veil told him so.

He looked behind it, even tried to go _through it_, but Harry stopped him, without even realising he'd just seen one of his best friends die. She was nobody to Harry, nobody at all.

And yet because of her, he still has a godfather, he still has some sort of bottom-of-the-barrel family.

Because of her, Sirius is now awaiting confirmation that he has been cleared of all charges. He's lived long enough to be a free man.

He hasn't cried yet. This shocks him too. He's screamed and he's yelled but the tears haven't made an appearance yet. He wonders if he still has the ability to cry, after everything. He wants to cry, he feels he owes it to her. He feels that he ought to be sobbing endlessly, that he ought to be inconsolable, but there's nothing.

He's just _empty._

Dumbledore has been to see him. His words breezed through Sirius' head, not stopping to settle in.

What can he possibly say that can make this okay?

He tells him his grief makes him human.

Sirius spends the hours following Dumbledore's visit in his animagus form.

He doesn't feel any less empty.

Harry too, has stopped by. He wants to know who the woman was, but Sirius can't _say_. He can't say that she's the same person as his _sixteen year old best friend_. It's _wrong_.

For the first time ever, Sirius wants Harry to leave him alone. His excitement about Sirius' imminent freedom far outweighs his grief for the woman who saved his godfather. Sirius doesn't want to hear about any of that. He feels like the entire world ought to have stopped and taken notice. He feels as though every single person, every single creature, wizard or muggle, human or beast, ought to bow their heads as a mark of respect, but they don't.

Life goes on regardless.

Remus says nothing. He simply sits with Sirius, head in his hands as they share the emptiness that has taken up residence in both of their hearts. This is, perhaps, the only thing that Sirius can really appreciate from a visitor, and Remus is the only one who truly understands the gravity of the situation.

As if Dumbledore hasn't been cruel enough already, he sends _her_ to see Sirius. She has no idea about what is to come, about what she means to him and what he will, one day, mean to her.

She has no idea that she will lay down her life for him.

She holds his hand, in that very pure and caring way that he hasn't seen much of since the first war. She is still remarkably untainted by the world.

He wonders how long it is until she disappears, and the selfish part of him hopes that it's soon. She's bound to be around for most of the summer, just as she was last year. It wasn't too tough back then. She was still alive.

"Who was she?" she asks delicately.

He looks at her, turning his head away quickly when he realises he's lingering too long on her eyes.

"Would you have done the same?" he asks, staring at the floor. "For someone you loved?"

"Did she know then? Harry said she just apparated right into it, like an accident."

"She knew," he said grimly. "She'd always known."

"Well I suppose she had a long time to think about it then," she reasons, with unfaltering logic in the face of things that are so _illogical_. He's always loved her for that. He's always found it endearing.

"But would you have done it?" he's desperate to know. He needs to know if she regrets it, if she even _can_regret things, wherever she is now. She's probably with James and Lily, and his heart burns with envy at the thought of the three of them, all together.

"I suppose if it was somebody I loved, then yes. Without a doubt."

He closes his eyes and the first tear drips onto the floor. After that they come easily, and Hermione rubs his back in soothing motions.

Voldemort and his death eaters have been knocking off the people he cares most about, one by one,for the past fifteen years. When he realises that Harry is probably going to be next, the tears come even harder. His only consolation is that he knows Hermione lives long enough to be sent back to him. Her death has only increased the security surrounding her future. She is safer than everybody else on the planet - she doesn't die until three days ago, after all.

The thing that shocks him the most, (or amazes him, he's not quite sure which he's feeling) more than the fact that she's gone, or the fact that she always knew, more than the fact that she loved him despite everything, is that she never broke the rules for James, nor for Lily. She wouldn't even break the rules so he could catch Peter, and prevent all of this from happening all over again.

She broke the rules for _him_.

He'd be proud of her if she hadn't ended up dead.

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><p><strong>The End.<strong>


End file.
